


I'm Not Into Sometimes

by snowbun (holymolypestoaioli)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: F/F, i absolutely lied, things got kind of explicit, to anyone who previously read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holymolypestoaioli/pseuds/snowbun
Summary: When Denali goes viral for posting a dance video, she doesn't expect it to lead her to becoming a choreographer for Rosé, an up and coming singer destined for fame.Denali thinks that this might be her first (and only) shot at achieving her dream. If only her dream wasn't wrapped up in a flurry of pink hair, charm and a supposedly professional relationship.
Relationships: Denali/Rosé (Drag Race)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since Denali posted the video of her choreography to 100% Pure Love. Two weeks since she posted a video of her spilling all the passion in her cup on the dance studio floor. Two weeks since the world has watched and decided to give her five minutes of fame.

At first, it was validation. She thought that her existing followers and a few other people would see the video and think, “Denali’s fucking Talented with a capital T.” It was the way every other video she had posted had gone down. She knew the video was above even her standards, but the larger than usual wave of gratification didn’t feel like anything special.

But then Monet X Change jumped into the party, sharing the video and telling her millions of followers that she was one of the best choreographers and dancers she’d ever seen. That’s when she knew this one was different. This was more than validation; this was the world suddenly turning its head to put its eye on her.

Yet, she thinks that two weeks might have been the limit. She’s posted more content to keep people interested, but nothing has quite captured people’s attention like that first video. The stream of DMs, comments and views have been decreasing and she thinks, “Well, I just have to keep trying.”

But here she is, sitting at her desk job, feeling utterly fucking useless. She’s staring at a screen when her heart is all the way on the other side of the city, its _thump, thump, thump_ beating along to the rhythm of music.

She’s aware of the student loans that beg to be paid each month, but every breath is a punch of anxiety to the stomach. Inhales of whispers saying, “Look where your passion has gotten you.” She chokes on the air, leaving her lightheaded and powerless.

Her phone lights up. “There goes another one.” She thinks to herself as she swipes to open Instagram. If she follows the pattern of the last two weeks, it’s either a new fan complimenting her or a dipshit asking for her nudes. Oh, the sad reality of virality.

But she stares at the bright blue check mark beside the username. She thinks it’s staring back, laughing and saying, “Look at your face, priceless!”

“Hi Denali!” It reads. “I’m Tamisha Iman from Iman Entertainment. I’ve been loving your videos and I wanted to reach out with an opportunity to choreograph some projects. Here’s my email so we can discuss details. Hope to hear from you soon!”

Her brain can barely register the words on the screen, but she knows that there’s only one thing left to do. She knows that the last few months of working her ass off as a part-time choreographer have led up to this moment.

She walks away from her desk, the sound of her pumps on the floor echoing in the aisles of the bland beige office. She hears the receptionist say something about him being on a call, but she doesn’t even stop to take a breath before swinging the door open. She’s face-to-face with her boss, a man who probably doesn’t even know her name, with a smile and a look in her eyes that’s almost delirious.

“I quit.”

* * *

On her way home, she realizes that she’s an idiot.

“You’re so stupid!” She says to herself as she swings open her apartment door. She hasn’t even replied to Tamisha and she’s already indulging spontaneous moments of catharsis over security. What if she found someone else in the span of an hour? The woman was in the business long enough to know someone just as good with far more experience. That last thought threatens to send her into a spiral, so she pulls out her phone and rushes to email a reply.

“Thank you so much for thinking of me, Ms. Iman! Really glad you liked the video. Could I have some details about this opportunity? I would love to work with you on any upcoming projects.”

For a moment, her thumb hovers over the send button. She takes a snapshot of this moment in her head. “This is it,” She thinks to herself. “This is where it all starts, Denali.”

She presses send and lets out a long exhale.

* * *

Three days.

It’s been three goddamn days since she quit her job and emailed her reply. It’s been three days of complete and utter suffering as the receiver of radio silence. The first evening, she had remained wonderfully calm in the fact that it was too soon. The second evening was more hellish, each notification popping up on her phone looking more and more like mockery. This third evening was the worst of them all, leading her to wallow in the idea that she had prematurely quit her stable job for an opportunity that she had never been promised.

“Denali, you can’t just stay there.” Kahmora says from the kitchen, her tone soft and understanding.

She knows her roommate is right. She knows that she has to get up and face the music. She knows that her only two options right now are to God forbid, crawl back to her old job or call every single one of her contacts to stock up on gigs; but there it goes again, that little voice in her head that won’t quit, that stupid tiny voice that gives her hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight is the night she’ll get a reply.

She clutches the phone in her hand like the rosary from her all-girls Catholic school days. Every time she thinks about letting it go is accompanied by a sense of hope, faded like the old pictures her mother left in the attic at home.

Kahmora sits beside her and she leans on her friend, willing herself not to burst into tears. “You’re not any less amazing, you know.” She reminds her as she strokes her fine, blonde hair. “Maybe this opportunity just wasn’t meant to work out.”

It doesn’t take a philosophical genius to know that Kahmora is right. She’ll lay awake tonight and replay the words in her head like a mantra straight out of one of those self-help tapes they used to use on smokers in the 90s; but damn, did it sting like a bitch.

The phone comes alive in her hand, a notification glaring at her through the screen. She swipes so fast that she thinks she might have just broken some world record. As she rushes to check what it is, she prays to whatever higher power that is out there that this was it, that the snapshot in her head wasn’t for nothing.

Her eyes dart across the screen, expression the very picture of stunned. She turns her head to look at Kahmora, staring at her with anticipation.

“What is it?”

“I’m choreographing Rosé’s new music video.”

* * *

For a week, Denali lived, ate and breathed making the choreography for Phenomenon. Every waking moment was spent perfecting the moves. She made sure that every jut, pivot and turn was sharp and purposeful. She wanted to make sure that there was no doubt in Rosé’s mind that she wasn’t just a ten-minute internet sensation, but a damn good choreographer.

Part of that job description was to study Rosé’s movements in her past music videos. She had heard the singer’s voice everywhere (who hadn’t, really,) so there was no denying her incredible vocal talent. However, watching her move was just as breathtaking. She was a spectacular performer with a beautiful toned body, so unlike what she was used to seeing for other artists.

After Kahmora had dropped her off and she’d promised to return in three weeks in one piece, she boarded the plane with a ticket Tamisha had bought for her. Even with all the comforts of business class, she could not bring herself to settle. Anxiety-inducing questions popped up in her head and she did her best to swat them away like flies.

“What if she thinks I’m just that girl from the internet?”

“What if she hates the choreo?”

“What if we don’t get along at all and I get blackballed?”

By the time she gets into the car that Tamisha had sent to pick her up from the airport, her thoughts have swirled and mixed, creating a dangerous cocktail of nerves that settles in the pit of her stomach.

As the car stops in front of the Iman Management Agency office, she settles for a nice deep breath. “You’re going for the gold, Denali.” She whispers to herself.

When she swings the door open and quickly lets her eyes roam, she comes to the disappointing realization that Rosé is nowhere in sight. For a week, she’d hyped herself up to make a good first impression.

The disappointment is quelled when Tamisha Iman stands up from her desk. She is nothing short of glamorous, with her gorgeous dark hair and tailored suit. Her smile is warm and inviting, and she almost forgets that the very thought of this moment would have made her throw up a few days ago.

“Denali!” She beams, walking over to shake hands. “So nice to meet you, I’m Tamisha. I gotta say, I thought I had seen everything after 30 years in the business; but I’ve never seen anyone move quite like you do.”

“That’s so nice of you to say, thank you.” Denali replies appreciatively, albeit somewhat shyly. “That video popped off so unexpectedly. I’m really glad you liked it.”

“Oh, who wouldn’t?” Tamisha gestures for her to take a seat in front of her desk. As she moves, Denali notes the utmost grace and poise that she carries herself with. With all her experience, she expected nothing less than this type of professionalism. “I see someone move like that and I know that they have what it takes to work with my talent.”

“Speaking of which,” She starts hesitantly. “I was hoping to meet Rosé. You know, get to know her and be comfortable before we start working.”

For a moment, Denali senses an exasperation when Tamisha sighs; but then, she just smiles apologetically. “I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to wait until your first session tomorrow. She’s really throwing herself into finishing this album, so she couldn’t make much time in her schedule.”

At first, she feels disheartened. It’s a mixture of, “Am I not worth meeting?” and the excitement of finally meeting the woman whose talents she’d been studying for a wholeass week; but then, the disappointment gives way to more anticipation. Meeting her in the studio means meeting her in her wheelhouse. There was no way, shape or form that she could disappoint anyone in her area of expertise.

“No worries, Ms. Iman. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

* * *

Denali expects that she’s going to wake up with a headache that feels like her brain is in a meat grinder when she gets up the next morning from a restless night; but it’s only 5:30 and she knows that the idea of today, the culmination of a lifelong dream, is far too thrilling for her to have no energy.

She swings her legs out of bed quickly, not giving herself too much time to think. She knows that the studio is barely five minutes away from the hotel and that the call time is 7:00, but if she sits still too long, she knows she’ll concoct another dangerous cocktail of anxiety and insomnia. If possible, she’d like to avoid that.

She steps into the shower and lets herself breathe deeply, relishing in the way the lungs fill with air and her muscles contract. She focuses on her senses and lets it flood her head. Better that than a doom scenario her mind will inevitably come up with.

She puts on her leggings and a sweater over her mesh top to protect herself from the chill of New York air. For the shortest moment, she allows herself to stare at her reflection and hype herself up.

“Move aside world, it’s your girl, Denali.”

When she gets to the studio, it’s predictably empty. It looks little like the studio she went to in Chicago. All the walls are a deep cool grey instead of the white walls with a brick accent that she’s used to. The floor is a much darker shade of brown too; but even then, she is reminded of home. This little box is where her love lies and she feels safe.

She checks her phone and sees that it’s only 6:40. “Huh.” She says to the empty air. She walks towards the mirror at the front of the room, the click of her heels echoing against the four walls.

“Might as well.” She says to herself as she sticks her phone in the dock. She chooses 100% Pure Love and starts swaying along to the music. If she’s honest, she hasn’t fully listened to the song since she recorded that fateful video; but when the music hits, her body remembers the movement. She watches herself in the mirror, the planes of her body shifting in fluid motions. She can see her body come alive, marrying freedom with control and she remembers then why the feeling is unparalleled.

Right as the song finishes, she hears another set of heels tapping against the floorboards. She sees someone come into view through the mirror. She spins as gracefully as she can to greet her, but her brain suddenly stops working.

Rosé is special and she knows it right away. She is somehow exactly the same but completely different from what she had expected. She sees the same face, sternly set jaw and amazing body that she had seen on a screen. The fact that she looks just as good in person leaves her completely dazed.

“Hi.”

Denali shakes her head, laughing lightly to hide that she’d been staring like an idiot. “Sorry, I just got a bit surprised.” She walks over, hand extended. “I’m Denali, the choreographer.”

“Rosé.” Her lips are pressed into a tight-lipped smile as she shakes Denali’s hand. The response is verging on cold, but it’s nothing for her to cry home about. She wasn’t so naïve as to think that this would become a ‘I’ll be your new best friend’ type of situation.

An awkward silence falls over them and Rosé refuses to look away. She feels like she’s being studied and she thinks her skin might start to itch from the discomfort. “So uhm,” She claps her hands together. “Let’s get straight into it?”

“Sure.”

Denali squats down to change the track as Rosé drops her bag in a corner of the room. “I’ll show you the choreography first, then we’ll go off from there. Sound good?” She called over her shoulder.

“Yeah, let’s do it.” Rosé replied as she sat at the side of the room.

Denali stands to the back of the room, staring at her reflection and willing herself to ignore the head of pale pink hair to the side. She marches forward, all attitude and spice, forever thinking of how to make every single moment an amazing performance, no matter the audience. As she sees herself dance, she realizes just how proud she is. This choreography is one of her best and she knows it.

She ends with her arm straight out and pointing at the mirror. She catches her breath, realizing that she’d been holding it. Her eyes move to Rosé who, apart from slightly raised eyebrows, is expressionless. She tries her best not to feel offended. She’s this proud of her work and she can’t even get a smile?

“So, what do you think?” She asks, hoping for a comment, quip, any response that could validate her work.

“It was good but,” Rosé pushes herself up and stands next to her. In the blink of an eye, there’s a shift. She becomes fully immersed in the work, nothing short of absolutely serious and a picture-perfect professional. “That part right before I enter the second verse. I was hoping for something like…”

She goes to the back of the room and spins to the front, a flurry of cotton candy clouds sweeping through the studio. Denali feels dizzy, but she can’t deny that Rosé looks fantastic doing the move and, to her chagrin, it does suit the music more. Even then, there’s an ache that comes with admitting it.

“Yeah, I think we can make that work.” She looks at Rosé and their eyes meet. It feels like too much, like sinking into a hole in the ground because holy shit, _she can see straight through me._ She’s never seen eyes quite like that before.

“Okay!” She exclaims quickly, giving herself an excuse to look away. “Let’s start from the top.”

The next two hours pass fairly quickly. By how quickly Rosé catches on and the number of edits that she makes to the choreography, she can tell that she’s had some type of professional training. The idea of that leaves her intrigued, but it’s overshadowed by her dejection. She’s a spectacular student, but the detached responses and almost too professional attitude leave Denali thirsty for some kind of gratification.

By the end of the session, Rosé has learned at least half of the choreography and Denali can’t deny that she’s impressed that she could keep up. She turns to look at her and is surprised to see her smiling for the first time. It lights up her whole face, even those damn eyes that she can’t bear to look at.

“Oh God, that was great!” She exclaims and it reminds Denali of a child after getting off a rollercoaster. “This is going to be my best video yet.”

Denali smiles back, finally relaxing after getting a hit of that delayed validation. “I think so too.” She agrees, looking down at her feet. “I mean, your work is fantastic and it’s honestly such an honor to do this with you.”

Rosé laughs and she decides that she likes the sound. It’s not the tinkling of windchimes on her mother’s porch. It reminds her of the beat of music when it moves through her. It’s deep, genuine and comforting, pulling at the rope bundled up into knots in her stomach.

“Are you kidding, Denali?” She says in disbelief. “Your choreography for this has been so good and I could not have asked for someone better to work with.”

She lets herself look into her eyes, now so full of joy and warmth. It feels like a different person, but she knows that it’s just two sides to the same coin. There’s something about the blurred line between the professional student she had just taught and the sincere woman speaking to her that blows her mind.

“Not gonna lie, that makes me feel really relieved.” She admits, pretending to wipe sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Rosé laughs again and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling too wide.

Rosé’s phone suddenly rings and she runs over her to her bag to check it. She groans and turns to Denali, looking irritated for a reason she can’t quite place. “Shit, I should get going.” She picks up her things and smiles again. “It was nice to meet you, Denali.”

“You too, Rosé.”

The singer is walking away when she stops in the doorway. She turns around and gives her a wink, so private and secret that she thinks it might be hiding from the glare of the sun streaming in through the windows.

“See you tomorrow.”

When she hears the door close, Denali all but collapses onto the ground, folding her legs under her and sighing deeply.

“Well, fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally feel like I'm writing the way I want to again! Would love any comments, nothing makes my day quite as much as seeing how you guys are feeling about this. Much love, hope you're all well and I hope that this chapter helps make your day better in some way. xx (also if you're free to beta, pls msg me at holymolypestopaioli on tumblr ily)

Release comes in the sound of blades scraping against ice. It is the feeling of her core tightening as she pushes off the ground and becomes the world turning on its axis. She is this moment of weightlessness and control.

Then her head begins to fog with visions of spinning rose-colored tops across a dark wooden floor, so endlessly mesmerizing. Her mind fills with questions of intrigue and challenge, the first time she’s ever seen duality so up close. Oh, to be so breathlessly enamored by beauty and talent.

It’s the loss of focus that weighs her down, causing her to land shakily on her right foot. She extends her left leg for balance and slides not-so-gracefully on the ice. She hears Olivia cheer in the sidelines, all bright white smile and wonder. It brings her back to the rink and away from the studio.

She skates over, pressing her forehead to the fence. “It’s not so bad.” She thinks. The rest of the world is slowly but surely getting hooked on Rosé, and she lives up to every expectation and more. She thinks it’s perfectly normal to feel a little charmed by her.

Even if she was a bitch at first.

“What’s wrong?”

Then again, she can’t quite answer Olivia’s question. She isn’t a fan from half way across the world. She’s the damn choreographer. She’s in New York, seeing her old friends and grasping onto her dream.

Said dream just had to come in the form of pink hair and clear green eyes.

She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing’s wrong, Liv.”

* * *

At first, she thinks she’s just so tired that she’s seeing things. When she blinks, she realizes that her eyes aren’t lying and that Rosé really is right there, sitting on the dance studio floor at 6:30 in the morning. She’s staring at intently at her phone, with an expression that can only be described as upset fury. She becomes too absorbed in typing to even notice Denali come in.

“Hey.”

She looks up and her face softens into a small smile. There it goes again, that weird feeling of nakedness that comes with being looked at by those eyes. The combination of this and the lack of sleep is disconcerting, but she manages to smile back anyway.

“Hey.” Rosé procures a coffee cup from behind her and reaches up to pass it. “I got you coffee.”

It takes her a minute to process, way too taken aback by the gesture. She’s always prided herself on being difficult to phase, but when a woman who is basically her employer that she barely knows hands her coffee, it’s hard not to act surprised.

Nonetheless, she accepts it gratefully, muttering a ‘thanks’ as she sits down on the floor beside her.

For a while, she stills as Rosé continues to type with such force that Denali’s scared that she might end up cracking the screen somehow. She wonders in silence, but she’d be lying if she says she’s not tempted to cross the arbitrary line and ask if something is wrong.

“Sorry.” Rosé’s voice suddenly rings clear, but the world around them still feels quiet, tranquil almost. “Just a lot of stuff that needs to get done before the video shoot.”

“Mmm,” Denali says, as she sips her coffee. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Even if the phone has been tucked into the pocket of her bag, Rosé opts for stretching out her legs in front of her and yawning instead of getting up. She turns her head to look at the choreographer whose gaze is directed at the cup in her hand.

“So,” She draws out the word lazily, cocking her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What do you think of Phenomenon?”

It’s a difficult question to answer. If she says something bad, she’s kicked off this project. If she says something good, she’s just kissing ass. She knows that the only right answer to this question is her own opinion, but when her mother told her that honesty is the best policy, she’s not sure this is the situation that she had in mind.

“Honestly?” Rosé nods. “I think it’s great. The lyrics are good, the production is amazing, your vocals are fantastic. Plus it’s your own brand of witty and self-assured. Not sure what’s not to like there.”

She isn’t sure if this was the answer Rosé expected from her. All she hears is a sigh and they sink once again into that comfortable silence while Denali finishes her coffee. She doesn’t really know much, or anything really, about the woman beside her, but in the stillness of the morning, she feels comfortable.

“Right,” Rosé’s voice is soft and she hates herself for the ache that starts to bloom in her chest. “What’s not to like?”

She tries to ignore it, that stupid idea that this is true vulnerability and not just small talk between colleagues; but she sees those eyes staring into the empty space, watches the beams of sunlight give her a blush halo. The ache spreads through her body and she bites her tongue to stop from begging to know what she could possibly not like.

Denali stands up and throws away her cup in a bin in the corner of the room. “Anyway,” She reaches out a hand to help her up. “We should get to work.”

Rosé smirks up at her and she thinks that the ache is threatening to cause an implosion. “Oh, so she’s all work and no play, huh?” She says, grabbing at her hand.

Then they’re face to face and Denali can feel the tug, that back and forth that comes with the competition that is flirting. She laughs a little, tries her best to play it cool. “I have to work hard if I want to play hard, don’t I?”

She walks away with a pair of eyes on her back and an ache that won’t go away.

* * *

“Are you going to spill all the tea now or what?”

Her eyebrows raise behind the glass of vodka cranberry that she’s holding. Of course, Mik wants to get straight to the gossip. She’d be surprised with any other conversation starter to their Friday night, almost a week since she’d arrived in New York. The bar Mik chose is a little too crowded for her taste, filled with other women who have been eyeing her. She notices but she ignores it in favor of the woman in front of her.

“What happened to ‘how have you been, Denali?’ or ‘how’s New York, Denali?’”

“Okay whatever,” Mik rolls her eyes. “How are you?”

“Tired.” She answers in a heartbeat.

“And would that have anything to do with a certain singer whose name rhymes with… shit, I can’t think of anything.”

She purses her lips together. If she’s honest, working with Rosé is probably the least tiring thing on her agenda. The ice skating in the early evenings as a bid to tire herself to sleep hasn’t been working. All its led to is sleepless nights staring at the ceiling until she sees the first vestiges of day creep through the windows, signaling another turn on the earth’s axis.

In the studio with Rosé, she can at the very least find some peace. The understanding that they are both good at what they do and the comfort of knowing that each day with her is a chance to know her more drives her to get out of bed and into the studio.

“A part of it, yeah.” It’s the tiniest bit of truth and Mik doesn’t look one bit sated by it. “What else am I supposed to tell you?”

“Oh, come on,” It’s that signature Mik whine that finally gets a laugh out of her. “You have to tell me something, anything!”

“You’re an MUA that works with runway models. You know enough famous people as it is.”

“That doesn’t make me any less curious about them.”

She bites her tongue when she hears those words. It’s not like she’s any different. Every morning with Rosé is an established routine with coffee and curiosity on both ends. The existing respect for each other’s craft makes them both wonder about the person underneath.

So, they start to ask questions. How’s New York? Where’d you get the coffee? How’s your morning? What’s the name of that guy on TV who used to host Fear Factor and is a shithead now?

Like clockwork, the questions morph into flirting. It’s standard, innocent, verging on comfortable even. Rosé is always the first to break into a blush, true to her name. At times, Denali thinks that she may have gone too far, but then she sees those eyes again, all amusement and interest. Each interaction is a chance for the ache to spread somewhere new along with the growing assurance that there’s nothing to dislike.

“I don’t know, okay?” She finally lets out. “We work great together and we get along, but it’s not like, ‘ooo, you’re my new bestie’ or anything like that.”

“Hmm,” Mik lets out a him, popping the straw out of her mouth. “That’s interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

“Let’s just say my sources tell me she doesn’t get along with everyone.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together at that. Sure, she understands that Rosé isn’t exactly everyone’s glass of wine, especially with the cold seriousness that she handles her music, but she respects that about her.

What’s not to like?

“Well, I don’t think she’s a bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Or maybe you want to be her bitch...”

“Oh, fuck you!” She throws a tissue at Mik’s face as the model cackles in delight. Her phone suddenly chimes, a message from an unknown number popping up on the screen.

_?: hey, I got your number from Tamisha_

“Who is it?”

Damn her and her expressive features. She keeps quiet, brain going at breakneck speed to think of all the reasons why she’s texting on a Friday night when she probably has at least a hundred different parties to go to and a thousand different women trying to catch her eye.

_Denali: really hope this is rose and not the guy standing outside Tamisha’s office who keeps asking me out_

“It’s just Rosé.” She watches Mik’s mouth turn into an O-shape and she throws another tissue. “No, no, not what you’re thinking, sweetie.”

At least she doesn’t think so. Harmless flirting is one thing, but getting her number from her manager? They keep stepping closer and closer to the line and she thinks she sees the chalk start to smudge.

_?: sorry to disappoint, it’s just rosé_

_Denali: too bad. what’s up?_

“She’s texting you on a fucking Friday night.” Mik sounds absolutely dumbfounded. “Sounds a lot more than professional to me.”

She knows that Mik is right. They don’t even have practice tomorrow, so she can’t justify it as a possible cancellation. She’s about to come out with some boldfaced lie when her phone vibrates on the table.

_Rose: just thought you should have my number. ps: my name is not rose_

Olivia arrives and she slams her phone right down on the table.

“I’m buying us a round of shots.

* * *

She hates this. She loves this. Saturday morning is now the distant tip-tap of heels against the floor, click in the brain, a switch to her soul. _Wake up, wake up, wake up_. This is not home, it’s not her hotel room. It’s just a cold floor where she has some peace.

Then she hears that voice, every note of the song a gentle wave rushing in to carry her away from her body. Her eyes are glued shut, but it doesn’t matter when she’s already left her body behind on the shore. The voice grows louder, closer, and the waves start to grow. Her body is too far away now and she’s not sure if her eyes will ever open again.

_Wake the fuck up._

“Denali?”

A poke to the ribs sends her rushing back into her own body. An involuntary groan escapes her lips and she hears a laugh from above her. She scrunches her eyes shut, terrified that any form of light might cost her the ability to see.

“What the hell?”

Her voice sounds like a croak to her ears and she manages to roll over onto her back. With a moment of preparation, she cracks open an eye. She’s greeted by the sight of Rosé kneeling over her barely functioning body, clearly trying her best not to laugh. Again, she groans and Rosé can no longer help herself.

“Why are you here?”

Honestly, she’s not sure about the answer to that one. There are bits and pieces of memories from last night printed on the back of her eyelids, but it’s all too fuzzy for her to try to piece together immediately. She remembers the sound of Olivia’s laughter mingling with Mik’s voice as they watched her throw back a seventh shot. The memory causes pain to start creeping into her head and she makes a promise to herself to never drink again.

There’s the sound of shuffling and when she looks up, Rosé isn’t kneeling above her anymore. She assumes that she’s sick and tired of her hungover ass, a perfectly valid response in her opinion. Then she hears humming beside her and sighs, glad that validity has no place in this situation. She closes her eyes again, losing herself to the light behind her eyes to ease the throbbing at her temples.

“Isn’t it a Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I asked you first.”

Her hands fly up to her face. Rosé is laughing again and the pain starts to spread throughout every part of her head. If only it would subside, maybe she’d finally have the energy to actually be embarrassed about waking up on the floor of her workplace.

“Went drinking.”

“Ah, and how’s that going for you?” There’s a smile in her voice. _Fuck it,_ she thinks as she jumps straight over the line of professionalism with a flip of her middle finger. Oh well, it’s not as if this whole situation has pretty much created a void where the line should be.

“Your turn.”

Rosé goes quiet. She focuses on the sound of their breathing. Inhale, exhale. The expansion of her sides with every controlled gulp of air. She hears a plane overhead, letting the escape of air follow it far away from city streets.

“Just wanted to get away for a while.”

She turns her head, sees pale pink rose petals sprawled out on the dark floor. In the gentle light of a Saturday morning, her eyes break her promise to herself, drinking in the sight of weary beauty. She thinks she’s just hungover, but she believes she’s never seen anyone quite so pretty before.

“Well,” She looks back up at the ceiling, stark white staring back at her. “Same here.”

* * *

By 10:00 PM, she’s burying herself in sheets. She’s never been much of a fan of stillness, but she thinks the last week might be changing her mind.

A few hours earlier, she’d replied to Mik and Olivia’s texts, asking her if she was okay. She cursed and reassured them in the same breath. When they’d asked her where she’d ended up, she had said, “passed out on the floor.”

Half a truth is good enough, right?

If she had told them everything, she’d have to tell them that she laid in the studio for half an hour with Rosé’s humming the only thing cutting through the pounding in her head. She would have to tell them that she’d stumbled as she got up, letting warm hands guide her as she learned to stand. She’d have to tell them of the exchange of tender smiles, so different from the tug of war of flirtation that she’s accustomed to.

Her phone lights up. She expects Mik or Olivia, even Kahmora. No, she only sees that name and she giggles to herself like a damn teenager, a quiet admission that she’s allowed something to change.

_Rose: pls tell me you didn’t go drinking again_

_Denali: I actually like having more than one brain cell, thanks_

_Rose: great, don’t want to have to pick you up off the floor again_

_Denali: won’t you ever let me live it down rose?_

_Rose: only if you start spelling my name right_

_Denali: the accent’s too much of an effort_

_Rose: then use my real name_

_Denali: ???_

_Rose: call me rosie_

A smile graces her lips and she shoots off one last message. She places her phone on the nightstand and buries herself in the blankets, drifting into her first good sleep in a long time.

_Denali: alright, night rosie_

* * *

Monday morning suddenly frees up when Rosé says she has to move their session to the evening to make room for interviews. She fills up the rest of her morning by replying to emails about skating gigs for when she eventually returns home. She has lunch with Mik and Olivia and when they inevitably begin to pry, she stays mum on what she can only now describe as her complicated friendship with Rosé. She returns to the hotel and lets herself sleep, turning the feeling of being well-rested into a brand-new addiction.

When she arrives at the studio at 7, there’s no one there. While it isn’t like Rosé to be late, she doesn’t text. She assumes that she’s coming from yet another one of many interviews that she kindly referred to as, “shitheads trying to get way too personal.”

She settles for freestyling to loosen up while she waits. When the music starts, she feels herself break. Every moment is grounded in her own brand of ferocity and well, sex. There’s comfort in her own body, in the knowing that it is a temple of worship to herself. A signal from her brain to move, a single fluid motion, all indulgent offerings to the pleasure only she will ever feel. She throws herself into the fire and the sensation of pleasure starts to build.

The door opens, but she doesn’t, can’t stop. She feels like she’s hovering over the floor, on the brink of climax. The song peaks and she almost gasps, dropping to her knees and letting her back hit the floor. She takes a deep breath, relishes the feeling of being alive.

“Sorry.” She’s apologizing, but she’s not sure for what.

“I…” For once, Rosé is at a loss for words. Her quick wit has been thrown out the window and is probably being dragged around under the wheels of a taxi. She laughs breathily as she gets to her feet.

When their eyes meet, the air turns heavy with unspoken words and desire. She tries to look away, but she can’t. Longing gazes meet and for the first time, she permits herself the thought of what it would be like to kiss her. Maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Uhm, okay! Let’s get started?” Rosé bursts out and she thinks that she might have won this round.

If the singer seems more distracted than usual, she doesn’t say anything about it.

* * *

The water in the shower is still cold when she receives a text that evening.

_Rosie: no need to meet me for the rest of the week. We need four dancers for the video, auditions on wed_

The water suddenly seems warm and for the first time in her life, she thinks she’s finally learning what it’s like to lose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things:  
> 1\. I changed Rosé's eye color and edited that in the past chapters. Why? GOTTA GO FOR ACCURACY  
> 2\. Did I drink too much wine? Yes. Did it help me write this? Big yes. Did I think it was a great idea when I woke up the next day? Not so much.  
> 3\. Big thank you to hollie47 for being the loveliest beta ++ giving me the idea for what is one of my favorite scenes in this whole chapter (and fic.)  
> 4\. Lots of stuff going on in my personal life, so this has been a wonderful reprieve for me. Much love to everyone reading and commenting, hope you enjoy this.

“Hey Mik, can you call in a favor for me?”

It upsets her how honest she is with herself. She knows that the motivations for doing this aren’t just passion and exposure, the way they always used to be. No, this time it’s so much more. It’s for the constricting she feels in her chest because she’s been an idiot for thinking there was more. It’s for the voice in her head reproaching her for forgetting why she came to New York in the first place. It’s for the questioning of her memory, if eyes the color of green amber were truly shining with want under fluorescent lights.

“Sure, what’s up?”

A hand reaches down to smooth the skirt of the black skating costume. It hugs the curves of her body and when she sees herself in the mirror, she’s reminded of who she is. She’s Denali Foxx, with a body that acts as an instrument for her own adoration.

_ Oh, but how wonderful it would feel to be adored by her too. _

“Could you call up Andy? I need help filming on the ice later.”

* * *

The audition starts out with 20 girls from all over New York, but in the span of an hour, there are only 8 left. She watches each of them with the eyes of the hawk. They’re terrified and she knows it, but only perfection will do. Under her scrutiny, not a single offbeat extension, turn or sweep can make it through.

She was sidetracked but it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s just here to fulfill her end of the deal.

Half a second off.

“You, sweetie!” The brunette in the back almost falls over when she points at her direction. “Sorry, you’re cut.”

She pays no mind to the girl when she rushes out of the room, close to tears.  _ Keep pushing,  _ she thinks as the other girls plaster smiles on their faces to hide the inner terror they feel under Denali’s watchful glare.

To her side is an intern sent by Tamisha, her tablet whipped out to take notes about who’s cut. It doesn’t come as a surprise to her that Rosé is absent from the auditions. It’s rational for her to believe that she’s busy recording her album and finalizing the video shoot. Then again, she recalls the lack of texts and the formality of her previous message, sending a signal that all of this is just an act of avoidance.

None of that really means anything, she swears it doesn’t.

“You two!” The pair on the left look at her with alarm. “Come to the front, I’ve seen enough.”

They walk towards her, heads hanging to curb their joy as the five other girls continue to dance. Denali’s down to the most minute of details. She’s aiming for nothing less than excellence and precision, as close to perfection as possible to achieve Rosé’s vision.

Shit, there she goes again.

The sight of petals spread across the floor and the sound of a low melody drifting through the studio crept into her mind again. She does everything she can to push them away. Instead, she does her best to focus on the chaos, the panic that keeps the girls twirling in their designated spots.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough!” She raises a hand and watches them all come to a halt. The intern pauses the music and she points to two girls on opposite sides of the room. “You two are in.”

The remaining three girls look miserable to say the least, but she allows herself to break character to smile gently at them. “Sorry girls, you didn’t make the cut.” She knows what it’s like to get this close, she doesn’t feel the need to be a bitch about it. “I know it’s rough, but I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time.”

She takes out her phone to type the message. She sees the name saved on her phone and she swears that none of that means anything. It’s all just her and her stupid, little brain giving meanings to things that should just be work. It’s absolutely nothing.

_ Denali: auditions are over, you’ve got your dancers _

_ Rosie: ok, thanks denali _

Nothing to it. Nothing at all.

* * *

Monday evening rolls around, the girls’ first rehearsal with Rosé. When she enters the studio, all big hair and charisma, the girls start to whisper fervently amongst themselves. Denali swears that the buzzing is going to give her a headache.

Rosé takes her place right beside her, mere inches apart, and she tries her best not to turn her head. She stares the girls down and if they believe that it’s just because she’s a tough choreographer, she lets them. The reality is that looking her in the eyes might leave her brain fried.

“Hi everyone.” There it goes again, the constricting in her chest. She sounds drained of all her energy and she’s oh so tempted to look, just to catch a glimpse and check if there’s even a trace of the woman who had laid beside her on the floor they stand on. “Nice to finally see all of you. I know you’ve all been working hard with Denali, and I’m excited to see how that’s all turned out.”

The girls are beaming at them, nervous but eager to show off what they’ve learned. Rosé steps forward, turning her back to the girls and looking straight at her. Denali forgets how to breathe when she looks at her. It’s all too familiar, but the air has changed. Where there once was comfort, all she now feels is unease.

“Okay, begin!”

From the get go, it is absolutely clear that Rosé is the sun. The heavenly bodies orbit her, the stars beg for her light. She is center stage and her radiance allows it all to exist. The longing grows, but Denali ignores it, convinces herself that to be charmed is not equal to a feeling; but with every spin, she feels the sun shine down on her in the dark of night and she grows less and less assured of her own lie.

The rehearsal goes over smoothly and she has to stop herself from sighing in relief. She’s 85% happy with everyone’s performance, and while that’s definitely not good enough, she still allows herself to relish in that small victory.

“Great job today, everyone!” She’s smiling, but she knows it looks like a grimace. She’s absolutely exhausted from both the lack of sleep and the past hour and a half trying her best to look at Rosé as nothing more than a choreographer. “Tomorrow, I want the absolute best from all of you, okay? Good, dismissed.”

She squats down to remove her phone from the dock and listens to the girls leave, chattering away as they exit the studio. She sighs as she runs a hand over her face, allowing the fatigue to seep in.

When she gets up and turns, she doesn’t expect to see Rosé still standing there. For the first time in the whole evening, she finally allows herself to really look. It’s clear from her downturned gaze and wringing hands that she’s nervous, a far cry from the self-assured performer she was only minutes ago. She fights off the urge to hold those hands in hers so they can finally turn still.

“I saw your video.”

Ah, the video.

She remains silent, continuing to stare. There are no steps forward, no steps back. They are at a complete standstill and she thinks she’s learning to hate the feeling again. She waits for something, anything that will move whatever this is forward.

“It was great, When I Grow Up is a good song.” Rosé settles for those words and she thinks she might scream. Such a well shot and choreographed video, and that’s all she can say to her face?

“Thanks.”

Rosé’s lips part and she can practically see the words dancing on the tip of her tongue. She wants to pluck them out of her with her lips, to forget the words that would only tell her what she already knows. It’s out in the open and she’s come to grow sure that the look of want and heaving breaths aren’t just all in her head.

“I should go.”

Denali opens her mouth to say something, but only her ears hear the word that comes out.

“Don’t.”

* * *

The rest of the rehearsals pass without either exchanging a single word that doesn’t concern work. All that Denali hears are questions about the choreography. She’s fully aware that in the grand scheme of the project, those words are important; but in light of the way she feels? Nothing could feel more trivial.

The way she feels, is that even appropriate? She was never hired to feel, only to choreograph. Every time her train of thought derails, leading her through a garden of pale pink roses blushing under moonlight, she switches the tracks back to Phenomenon.

For a while, the taste of whatever she feels, so close to rejection but not close enough, is all bitterness in her mouth. At first, she’d tried to wash it away with the sharpness of alcohol on her final nights out with Mik and Olivia, but it doesn’t work. Reluctantly, she’d confessed to herself that only leaving New York would ever pluck the taste of the loveliest roses she’s ever seen from her tongue.

By the end of their last rehearsal on Thursday evening, she almost forgets how shitty she originally felt. All she recognizes is the feeling of overwhelming pride. Her work is finally coming to fruition and the idea that she’ll be credited for something so spectacular almost brings her to tears.

“Amazing job!” For the first time in the last week, her smile is genuine. She rushes at the girls, high fiving each of them as the wave of euphoria crashes over her. They’re laughing and smiling at her, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so happy to work before.

“So, everyone,” She speaks up, taking her place in front, right beside Rosé. “Don’t forget that the call time tomorrow is 8 AM. If anyone is late, I’m going to be pissed, so please arrive on time. If today is any indication, I think you’re all going to be amazing tomorrow. Please get some rest and I’ll see you then.”

The two of them watch the girls leave, the sound of laughter fading with footsteps. They’re fixed to the spot, buzzing with exhilaration at the prospect of tomorrow. Denali is almost dizzy from the high of pride.

“Hey.”

Rosé’s voice is soft, but it contrasts so greatly to the energy left behind in the room that it feels like a scream. It’s begging for her to listen and she knows it, but it’s no longer the low voice reserved for mornings sipping coffee and asking questions. She drowns in the feeling of almost familiar, throwing her head back with a sigh.

“Hi.”

“It’s our last rehearsal ever together.”

Denali has to admit that the thought has crossed her mind. How could it not when the pain of wanting to know someone and not getting close enough still lingers in her chest? Now that she’s brought it up, the ache of wanting to know her, the ache of ‘tell me what’s not to like,’ rushes back in a fresh wave.

“Yup.” She pops the P, clapping her hands together.

She’s aware that there’s still the video shoot to get through tomorrow, but this feels like the end. It’s the last time they have the chance to really be alone, and she knows there’s nowhere to go but here. They’ll end as nothing more than the singer and choreographer whose flirtation evolving into need fizzled out like a match in the dark.

Her feet start to carry her away. Where else is there to go when there’s nothing else to say?

Then she feels a hesitant hand grab lightly at her wrist. The skin burns from the contact, the sun was never meant to be touched. She turns around and sees Rosé staring at her with eyes that she swears are pleading. Those eyes could never lie.

_ Don’t. _

“I don’t want this night to end without having tried to really know you.”

She knows that the road is a dead end. Whatever they had, or didn’t have, is past its expiry date. Nonetheless, the offer to answer her one question, to finally know what’s not to like, is right there, fingertips branding the flesh of her wrist.

“Okay.”

* * *

The past almost three weeks in New York are more than just grey walls the color of skies swirling with storms and dark wooden slats of floorboards. Yet, she knows she’ll miss them. It isn’t the idea that this is where all her dreams led her to and that the existence of this room is physical, tangible proof that she’s going places.

No, what she will miss most about this room is being alone with Rosé. It is the memory of lying next to her, listening to her hum as her skull threatens to crack straight down the middle. It is the memory of small talk and coffee on weekday mornings. It is the memory of seeing her standing in the doorway, every exhale a release of need that fills the air with static.

It is now also the memory of sitting across from her while they eat takeaway Thai food, laughing like they’ve been friends for years. Denali finds comfort in talking about everything from Mik and Olivia to her love of ice skating. She finds satisfaction in hearing Rosé turn every little joke into a song. This memory is more than just four walls and some floorboards, but they only serve to keep it solid in her mind.

“Your turn.”

“Hmm,” Denali chews thoughtfully. After Rosé’s little story about how the scar on her knee is from falling drunkenly out of a cab after a party with the legendary Jan and Lagoona Bloo, she isn’t sure she has anything that can compete. “Okay, so I used to play Elsa on this Disney on Ice show back in Chicago.”

“You have to be kidding me.” She replies with a deadpan expression.

“I swear!” Denali exclaims, almost knocking over the container of pad thai in front of them. “I was fresh out of college and the holidays were coming up. Some guy saw me at the rink and said ‘hey, want a job?’”

She places the back of her hand under her chin and bats her eyelashes, trying her best to show off her features as Rosé squints at her. Their gazes meet and the laughter dies away, lost to the growing need to touch, to hold, to understand. It’s as crystal clear as Rosé’s eyes that there’s something there. Then the thought of  _ last night  _ crosses her mind and she has to will herself to look away.

“Nope,” Rosé finally says and the spell breaks. “Don’t see it.”

“Wait, it’s your turn!” Denali sits on her heels and points a spring roll at her, making her laugh so hard that she starts to hear wheezing. “Be honest, did Tamisha push me on you?”

She watches her bite her lip and roll it between her teeth. She senses the hesitance to answer the question and she thinks that this is it, she’s indulged her curiosity too much and gone too far.

“Actually, I pushed her on you.” Denali’s chopsticks are halfway to her mouth when the reply comes. She lowers them slowly, watches Rosé fiddle with a piece of tape stuck to a container. Leave it to her to give answers that only present more questions. “Monet shared the video and I just had this feeling in my gut that your energy was perfect for the job. I called up Tamisha, showed her the video and said it was you or no one else.”

To say that she’s surprised would be an understatement. She stares, trying her best to process the jumble of thoughts and emotions that are blazing through her head.

“I think that’s the smartest decision you’ve probably ever made.”

Rosé pretends to throw a chopstick at her and she cackles as she ducks. “Screw you, the one time I try to be nice!”

She makes a face and the room turns quiet again. There it is again, that ache in her chest that begs her to ask questions. For a while, she holds her tongue as Rosé rifles through the bag of food; but the more she watches, the more she needs to know. There is nothing about her that she doesn’t like and she can’t stand the feeling of  _ not enough. _

“Hey Rosie?”

“Mmm?” She says through a mouthful of food.

“Were you avoiding me last week?”

The words are out in the open. She regrets it the moment she even feels the words on her tongue, but she knows that there’s no taking it back. The way Rosé looks at her, a deadly mix of guilt and frustration, makes her pray for the ground to open up and swallow her alive.

“It’s not like I wanted to.” Her arms flail and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen her look so exasperated before. “Tamisha said yes to you being here and I was a hundred percent sure she would come for me if it looked like I was trying to spend all my time with the talented, hot choreographer.”

Denali’s cheeks heat up, but she opts to ignore the fact that she’s just been called hot by what is likely one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen. “Why didn’t you reach out after.”

She shrugs. “You seemed so busy after filming that video and then you were rehearsing with the girls, and I just… I didn’t want to be a distraction either.”

“You, a distraction?”

“Excuse me!” Rosé scoffs as she brings a hand to her chest, feigning offense. “I would have been incredibly distracting, I’m just as hot as you are.”

They both know that this is their last night alone, but when they break into a fit of laughter, Denali doesn’t feel like this memory will be colored with blue finality. She doesn't feel the choke of air that she thinks she should have. No, she knows she will wake up tomorrow, remembering nothing but the hazy blush of too late, but for once, close enough.

* * *

This is it, the moment she’s been waiting for since she arrived in New York a little less than three weeks ago. This is the moment she had dreamt of since the moment she got that message from Tamisha Iman.

At 7 in the morning, it isn’t nearly as glamorous as she’d originally thought it would be.

She’s tired and addled from the lack of sleep, but the energy in the giant function room is alive and busy. People rush around to set up cameras, fix the lighting and add final touches to the set, a beautifully built runway that would put fashion houses to shame. As much as she wants to appreciate how amazing everything looks, the thought of such a long day makes her want to run to her hotel and crawl back into bed.

“Morning.” She opens her mouth to greet Rosé back, but when she turns to look at her, the response runs dry. She’s standing there in her nude leotard with its pink beads and detailing, looking like a fucking goddess that has stepped straight out of the painting. Denali doesn’t even notice the coffee cup being handed to her until she hears a laugh. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”

“Shut up.” She mutters under her breath as she grabs the cup. With the way Rosé is looking at her, all smirk and teasing, she knows what kind of thoughts are running through her head. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“No problem.” The smile on her face makes Denali wish that they hadn’t ended the previous night as just friends, but she sobers herself with a sip of coffee. “Now, come on. You have people to meet.”

The rest of the hour is spent on introducing Denali to people in the crew. Rosé introduces her with such pride, always prefacing everything with ‘the best choreographer I’ve ever worked with,’ that it makes her blush. When she meets the director, a longtime friend and collaborator of Rosé’s, she’s shocked to hear him say, “So you’re the famous Denali she’s always on about!” Needless to say, there was instant regret, causing her to be pulled away from the situation almost immediately.

When the girls arrive, she leaves Rosé to focus on whatever tasks remain unfinished. To her delight, they’re all on time. She ushers them to hair and make-up, guiding them there like a babysitter caring for four small children.

While she waits for them to finish, she takes the opportunity to fully absorb her surroundings. Everything looks pristine, bathed in the glow of purple and blue light, like it was plucked straight out of Rosé’s dreams. She smiles to herself, hoping that seeing all of it come to life brings her some joy.

“Ms. Foxx?” The intern from the auditions comes up to her, too focused on her tablet to even look up. She worries that the poor thing, bless her heart, might end up tumbling over something at this rate. “It’s time to rehearse the blocking.”

There’s nowhere else left to go when this day is over. When the thought crosses her mind, she suddenly feels her chest heave. This is it and it’s real. She looks around and sees Rosé talking to the director, nothing but stress under her pink curls. As if sensing Denali looking at her, she turns and they lock eyes. They breathe, far apart but in sync. She sees her shoulders relax and none of it seems so nerve-wracking anymore.

“Okay, let’s go.” She walks away with the intern, fearless and ready.

* * *

When she finally takes a seat on the edge of the runway, it feels like the first time she’s breathing since before filming started. She tries to think back on the day, but she finds herself coming up empty. There are endless takes of HER choreography and close-ups of Rosé’s face, but they all end up one indistinguishable blur behind the light of her eyelids.

If she tries hard enough, she can remember having lunch with the girls. Over the course of the meal, she found herself surprised that she had grown rather attached to them, even going so far as to exchange numbers. It’s only then that it hits her that she doesn’t want the day to end.

Rosé hops up beside her, their shoulders bumping as she swings her legs. She’s finally changed out of her costume into a pair of jeans and one of the many leather jackets she’d bought off a fellow artist. She wonders if they ever made it look like their own the way she does.

“We did it.”

“Excuse me, you did it.” Denali shoots back. “I was the choreographer, but this was your baby.”

“I was trying to share some of my accomplishment with you, but whatever.”

They sit there, watching the last remnants of the shoot get cleared away. It’s been a little less than three weeks, but Denali feels different. It’s the assurance that when she opens her email after the video is released, the offers will come in droves. It’s Rosé as the last thought before she closed her eyes the night before, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

Most of all, it’s how coming home won’t be the same. Chicago is where her heart lies, but she knows that something about her has changed. Going home will no longer feel like the relieved sigh of ‘finally’ after a hard day of work. It will be the slow release of breath when she whispers, ‘hello.’

“Come on,” Rosé holds out a hand. “I want to make sure you don’t forget your last night in New York.”

Denali cocks an eyebrow, smirk playing at her features. “Someone’s being very forward.” Rosé rolls her eyes, but she quits teasing and takes her hand anyway. “Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

The bar Rosé takes her to is barely 10 minutes away from the shoot location, so they decide to walk. It’s quiet, but she doesn’t feel one bit awkward or comfortable. She’s grown accustomed to the lull of it, even growing to like it. If either of them feels the brush of each other’s hands, neither of them mentions it.

When they enter, she’s surprised that no one reacts to the fact that a rising star has just walked into the room. All the patrons are too immersed in their own worlds or busy downing their drinks to be starstruck. She waves to the bartender and Denali realizes that they all know her here.

“Come on.” They go to the back and a small table with two women, one with blonde and the other with bright blue hair, enters her field of vision.

When she realizes that what she’s seeing is actually motherfucking Jan and Lagoona Bloo, she almost passes out. “Holy shit.” She says because swearing out loud seems like the most appropriate response in the situation.

“Denali, this is Jan and Lagoona Bloo.” Rosé says like they aren’t two of the biggest upcoming artists in the country.

They turn to look at her. Jan raises her eyebrows at Rosé and Lagoona beams at her, recognition washing over her face instantly. “Oh my god, you’re Denali!” If she wasn’t in shock before, she thinks she might be having a stroke now. “I love your videos, they’re so good.”

“Thank you.” She manages to say despite the lack of coherent thoughts running through her brain. “I’m a huge fan. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it, but I did a piece for Greedy with My Love a few months ago.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jan pipes up, lowering her glass onto the table. “We watched that video at least a thousand times when it came out.”

She turns to look at Rosé, standing by her side and smiling like seeing Denali meet her closest friends is one of the greatest things in the world. The look on her face turns her insides to mush, and she thinks that this is the best idea for spending her last night in New York.

“Come sit,” Lagoona gestures to the seat across from her. “We need to know more about the girl that’s got Rosie losing sleep.”

“Okay!” Rosé exclaims, throwing her hands up. Even under dim bar lights, she can see a furious blush make its way onto her cheeks. “If you guys are going to talk shit, I’m going to have to get some drinks.”

With the amount of shit they talk for the next 3 hours, it’s no wonder that Rosé ends up giggling like a schoolgirl when they start to talk about her drunkenly doing handstands at one of the first shows they’d performed at as Stephanie’s Child. Denali doesn’t feel one bit out of place. When she feels a tentative hand lightly rest on her knee, there’s no questioning her comfort.

“Well ladies,” Denali stands up, causing Jan and Lagoona to groan in protest. “It’s been really fun, but my flight back to Chicago is pretty early tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Rosé says almost immediately. The other two girls exchange looks, doing their best not to snicker. She turns to them and rolls her eyes. “Shut up, I’m trying to be a nice person.”

Jan looks back at Denali, an amused twinkle in her eye. “Thanks for hanging out with us tonight. I hope we see you soon.”

“I hope so too.”

She waves goodbye and they walk out together into the cold night air, feeling the wind whip against her face. She can hear the pulsing of music from other bars nearby. Nothing quite like New York on a Friday night.

“This is it, huh?”

Rosé stares at the toes of her boots. She isn’t sure if it’s done in an effort to stay upright or so that she doesn’t have to look at her in the eye. Either way, her chest starts to ache and she wishes that she’d stop doing it.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Then there those eyes are, glittering under flickering streetlights, telling her this can’t be the fucking goodbye that they’ve been putting off all this time. She knows that there will be other chances, their paths have to cross again at some point, but she wants this chance. She doesn’t care about not seeing her tomorrow or only ever seeing her as another figure in a video. This is all she wants before she leaves and nothing else.

_ Fuck it. _

Denali steps forward and presses her freezing palms to the side of Rosé’s face. She prays that they let her frame this moment so when she inevitably has to return home tomorrow, there will always be this to remember her by.

“Is this okay?”

The whisper ghosts against Rosé’s lips and she feels her shiver, not from the cold, but from the heat of the breath dusting her features. A hand comes up to her wrist, holding her gently like a tender prayer that this isn’t the last time. It can’t be.

It starts as the lightest brush, uncertain but longing. The sound of passing cars or muffled music or cries from drunk passersby no longer exist. All she can hear is the sound of slow breaths mingling in the tight space between them, space she cannot bring herself to give.

Then there is a press and every inkling of doubt is stripped away. Another hand travels to the base of her spine, tracing slow lazy circles that she follows around and round until she grows dizzy. She is spinning with her through the studio, joining her in the flurry of cotton candy clouds until the taste of sweetness is all that's left on her tongue.

It takes a moment or maybe five hundred, but she pulls away. She rubs her thumb across the skin of her cheek, willing herself to memorize the way it feels to make it part of the picture she will take home in the morning. She hears a whisper of her name, and she thinks that if she hears it again, she will fall apart.

“I have to go.”

Another kiss. It asks her not to leave even if they both know the answer to the question. It’s over as soon as it started, the grip on her wrist going lax and travelling down to her waist to send shivers up her spine.

“You’ll call?”

There are those eyes again, so clear with their want. One last kiss before she goes, light and slow, a memento of her for the road. This won’t be the last time; they both promise to themselves. There will be other chances to take just like this one.

“Of course, I will.”

* * *

When Denali gets back to Chicago and splays out on the couch beside Kahmora, she closes her eyes and feels the branding of rose petals against her lips.

“How was New York?”

“It was wonderful.”

Her phone, sitting on the coffee table, lights up and all she can do is smile.

_ Absolutely wonderful. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that there's a lot more in store for this fic, see you soon everyone xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i saw that all of my favorite rosenali fics just got updated, so i said, "let me join in on the fun." hope you guys enjoy, this was the most fun chapter to write and i hope you guys have a good giggle.  
> also, realized lately how much the pandemic has been affecting me mentally and socially, so if you need someone to talk to, just message me on holymolypestoaioli on tumblr. much love xx  
> (ps thank you to hollie47 for beta-ing, you are my absolute fave and I am so thankful for your laser eyes)

Being on stage makes her feel like she could set the whole world on fire. The music starts and the spark sets her alive. The flames spread slowly across the stage until it has engulfed everything in sight. The audience is cheering her name, throwing gasoline straight onto the fire until they are all set ablaze. She hears her voice over the speakers and all she hears is that soft but powerful crackle burning through the night.

When she’s in the car on the way home, she is covered in soot and ash, remnants of the fire painting her body. It never quite dies, that feeling. The instant sharpness of getting scorched disappears, but she still feels the prolonged sting of each blister. She savors it, never wants to forget it, this beautiful feeling of untamed and untouched.

_ Ding. _

The name on screen feels like the chill of ice, soothing in the contrast of heat’s intensity. It feels like the cold of early morning, when it feels far too hot and she craves stillness. It feels like freezing palms on the side of her face, kisses to flame without any fear of being burned.

“Hey.”

“Hey, how was your show?”

Denali reminds her of ice, but her voice only serves to make her aware of the heat. It is all cheer and warmth and absolute hell because being apart from her for a month has already been too much. Suddenly, it’s far too hot and all she wants is to feel the comfort of the cold.

“It was great, but the lights were so hot that I think the foundation is literally melting off my face.”

“Let me see!”

They turn on their cameras and there she is. The roots of her hair have turned dark, shards of black poking through icy blonde. She’s smiling, eyes alight with the anticipation of seeing her, even if she’s just a pink mess on the screen. The fire is threatening to swallow her up, the need for cold growing stronger with every second.

“You liar, you look stunning.”

She laughs at the lie. Rosé can see herself, patches of her skin poking through the foundation. It feels ridiculous that someone could ever try to tell her that she looks good with faded makeup under an unflattering car light, but the way Denali is beaming is all too convincing.

“The camera isn’t doing me any favors, but that’s sweet.” She runs a hand through her hair, at least three times bigger than it was at the start of the show. “And how was your shoot?”

“I’m so exhausted.” She groans. “I haven’t even changed out of my costume yet. I can barely move.”

Earlier in the day, Denali had sent her a picture in a gold catsuit that covered up so much but left so little to the imagination. Even if she can barely see any of it on the screen, the very thought of it makes her flush.

“I’m so excited to see your video.” The sight of her smile turning soft, the way the edges of ice slowly melt, is worth bearing the heat for. “Speaking of which, guess what comes out on Friday?

All she hears is a squeal before she is promptly greeted by grey carpet on the screen. “Shit, I’m sorry. I got so excited that I dropped my phone.” There’s the muffled sound of her trying to pick it up. She’s trying her best to hold back a laugh, but it comes out as a snort that she knows is not at all attractive.

“I’ll send you the final cut tomorrow night if you promise not to drop your phone on me again,” she says as the car pulls up to her building.

There’s a scoff as Denali comes back into view. “You’re so annoying.”

“I know.” The car stops and for a moment, the world comes to a halt. All that exists is the low rumble of the car and the sting that comes with the burn of missing her. “I have to go. I’ll text you later.”

“Okay, bye.”

When she hangs up, she feels the world start turning under her feet again.

* * *

“Rosé!”

It takes her a while to process, but she can see Jan pointing at her and Lagoona laughing so hard that there are tears in her eyes. She looks down at the microphone she’s holding and she realizes that it’s upside down.

This is how she knows that she’s had three drinks too many.

It was supposed to be a quiet Thursday night, but Lagoona decided that they had all been working far too hard. As much as Rosé wanted to argue that she had to get up early for recording the next day, her best friend pointed out that the three of them hadn’t been able to hang out since Denali had left for Chicago. At that point, there didn’t really seem to be much point in fighting.

A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton is blaring over the speakers and she’s doing amazing at hitting the notes, but horribly at reading all of the words on the TV. In her alcohol addled state, the letters get jumbled up in her brain and they leave her mouth sounding like complete gibberish.

Her friends are howling and she can’t resist giggling when she hears it. Jan’s decision to take them to a karaoke bar where they could sing like screaming banshees without the pressure of executives that wanted them to have chart-toppers was admittedly a smart one.

Well, until the drinking started.

“And I need you.”

She sings along to the riff, much to Jan and Lagoona’s delight. All the laughter and drinking remind her of college, right when she’d met her two best friends and started a singing group with them. While they all eventually decided to pursue solo careers, there were no other people in the world she was bonded to in the same way.

Plus renting a luxury condo unit didn’t exactly come cheap.

“And I miss you.”

_ Denali. _

Her name is a punch to the gut, so hard and fast that she drops the microphone. Her friends think this is still part of her hilarious drunken act, but she knows that all the alcohol she’s consumed has made her thoughts take a turn.

Growing up, she’d realized that life had to be about moving forward, not looking back; but whatever it is that she feels for Denali, it’s all too familiar. It feels like having her first crush after coming out in college, all emotion trapped in a bubble, suspended in the air. She’s waiting for it to pop, hands spread to catch herself just in case.

“Rosé?”

Jan says her name when she notices that she’s staring into space, no longer singing along to the music. It breaks her out of her trance, and she immediately grabs her phone on the table, knocking over a drink in the process.

“I need,” she manages to say. “To book a flight to Chicago.”

Her friends exchange looks and before she knows what’s happening, Lagoona has snatched her phone away. She looks down at her hand, realizing too late that it’s no longer there. “No, no, no, that is a terrible idea.” She says, putting it out of her reach. “We are not going to let you drunk-book a flight.”

“Give me the phone, Lagoona!” She jumps up to try and take it back, but she only ends up crashing on the couch, head lolling over the back. She feels one of them lean against her as the song ends, the final notes fading away.

“I miss Denali.”

The sound of the truth rings in her ears and it stuns her. They had worked together for three weeks, she wasn’t supposed to miss her this much; but when she closes her eyes at night and lays her head down on her pillow, the feeling of her breath, light as feathers, brushing against her face is all she can feel.

Lagoona strokes her hair comfortingly. “We know.”

Without giving it much thought, she takes advantage of the seemingly sweet gesture and steals the phone back. She isn’t quite sure how she manages, but she runs straight out of the bar. Her feet are freezing cold against the pavement and she realizes that she’s forgotten her heels back in the room with her friends.

“Shit.” Her hands are shaking and she can barely make out the words on the phone, but she starts to type.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hi. Are you an airplane?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I meant are you an airplane person?”

“…”

“Yes, can I order one plane to Chicago please?”

“ROSÉ!”

In a flash, she’s tackled to the ground by a fuming Lagoona Bloo. She tries her best to look up and sees Jan standing there, waiting for their Uber to arrive. Lagoona is talking to whoever is on the other end of the line, apologizing profusely and promising to explain when she can. Exhaustion seeps into her muscles so quickly that all she can do is curl up on the ground.

“Come on.” She hears one of them say, but she can’t recognize the voice anymore.

“Cold floor, so nice.”

“Bitch, we have to go!” She feels them prop her up and shove her into the car before everything goes dark.

* * *

If there’s one thing she doesn’t experience much of, it’s shame.

When she wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, she doesn’t even question what happened the night before. She’s too used to doing the weirdest shit while drunk to bother with embarrassment, so she doesn’t think anything about the previous night will come as much of a surprise.

She stands up, swearing loudly when she realizes how sore she is. There’s a bruise on her arm that’s turning yellow and she starts to wonder a little more if she’s finally gone off the deep end. She realizes that she’s still wearing the exact same black mini dress from last night, and she can’t detect any vomit or anything of the sort on it.

Well, that’s one good thing at least.

In the living room, she spots Jan sprawled out on the couch with her mouth hanging wide open. The sight is too funny for her not to take a picture of, so she rushes as carefully as she can back into her room to get her phone. When she finds it on her bedside, she sees a crack running through the length of the screen. If she wasn’t so hungover, maybe she’d have more sense to wonder why.

Before she can go out to take the picture, her phone starts to vibrate. The name on the screen strikes fear straight into her heart. “Oh, fuckity fuck.” She picks up, trying her best to stay calm. “Hey, Tamisha.”

“Hi Rosé.” There’s the sound of papers being shuffled in the background, sending immediate signals that her manager is not in the best of moods. “How was your recording session this morning? Oh right, you weren’t there.”

She winces. “Sorry, I had a night out and slept in.”

There’s a sigh and she can feel her disappointment from the other end. She knows that Tamisha is the best manager she could ever have, not just because she’s amazing at her job, but because she genuinely cares enough about her to help make the album as amazing as she needs it to be. The last thing she ever wants is to take that for granted.

“Rosé, I know you’re working really hard.” Her voice is soft, almost hesitant. “You’re allowed to take a break, if you want to. I won’t be angry or anything like that, I just want you to be well.”

“It’s fine.” The answer is instinctive, as it always has been. Trying to take breaks in the past hasn’t ended well. She only returns to her work five minutes later because fresh new ideas pop up in her head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just grab some lunch and then I’ll head to your office to review everything for tonight.”

“Okay,” Tamisha doesn’t sound quite convinced, but she’s aware that this is a losing battle. “I’ll see you at 2.”

They hang up and she walks back out to the living room. To her disappointment, Jan is already awake, trying her best to pry one eye open and grunting when she hears footsteps. “What time is it?” She asks.

“Almost noon. You couldn’t make it to your bed?”

Another grunt. “Don’t try me, I think we found the bounds of my love for you last night.” She finds the energy to sit up. “Did you call Denali yet?”

She cocks her head. “What, why?”

Jan tries to laugh but before she can, a nauseated expression comes over her features and she runs to the common bathroom in the hallway. Rosé is amused, but the question about Denali leaves her intrigued, and she immediately follows through. By the third ring, she picks up the phone.

“Hey, I was wondering when you’d wake up. Are you feeling okay?

“I regret choosing a nickname even remotely related to alcohol, if that’s what you’re asking.” She replies as she walks to the kitchen for some water. “By any chance, did I call you last night?”

“Yes.” She sounds like she’s holding back a snicker and it only makes Rosé nervous.

“Ugh, what did I say?” She says before taking a sip of her water.

“You asked if I was an airplane and if you could order a flight to Chicago.” She starts coughing as she chokes on the water, and she hears Denali laugh on the other end. “To be fair, you did correct yourself and ask if I was an airplane person.”

“I’m never going drinking again.” The burning of her cheeks makes her thankful that she can’t see her face. So rarely does she ever feel shame, but this? This is a whole new level of embarrassment.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Denali dismisses it like a drunken call about airplanes is a regular occurrence. “Let’s just call it even.”

The memory of lying next to her on the studio floor makes her cheeks heat up even more and she tries to push it out of her mind. For the first time in a long while, she allows herself to feel embarrassed. Calling a girl that she likes to ask if she’s an airplane that can take her to her city of residence wasn’t exactly high up on her bucket list.

“Hey, I have to get back to the ice but I’ll call you at the release tonight.” It’s the sound of the smile shining through her voice that makes Rosé regret her drunken escapade a little less. “By the way, if you ever want to pull through with the coming to Chicago thing, I’d like that.”

The line disconnects before she can pick up the pieces of her brain that have scattered all over the kitchen floor.

* * *

When they count down together, she numbers the things that she is sure are true.

“3…”

The first truth is that she is alive.

The streets of New York are still bustling, filling the air with the sound of chatter and car horns. All of the people below her are leading vastly different lives and she can imagine a million different scenarios for them if she tried to. Someone just got broken up with or gotten drunk out of their mind or clocked out of work. Each person living their own distinct version of okay.

This moment is her own version of okay. Up in her balcony with the wind blowing tendrils of pink hair across her face, she is fully aware that she is alive. Everything is fickle and finite, but she can see her life and dreams playing out in front of her, the next 3 seconds the perfect proof of it.

“2…”

The second truth is that she would not be as proud as she is of this video were it not for Denali.

Her career is a garden of roses with achievements like petals, plucked away at breakneck speed. She doesn’t care about the thorns that prick her fingers, beads of blood turning green stems to red. All that matters is that the petals fall away to reveal the dreams she’d tucked away when it was nothing more than a bud.

With each petal she tears away, the sting from the wounds on her hands become too much to bear; then Denali came. She didn’t hold the rose for her, did not tell her how t0 stop the bleeding. No, she made her want to grow more roses, made her want to plant new dreams so that would not be choked by thorns.

She reminded Rosé of what it meant to want to grow.

“1!”

The last truth is that she’s unequivocally, unbelievably happy.

They swipe down together and the thumbnail appears immediately. There it is, the still she had chosen of her posing, hands bunching together pale pink curls atop her head. She screams, voice carried away by the wind.

“Oh my God!

She’s always been told that dreams never match up to the real thing.

_ Bullshit. _

The weight of joy is crushing her chest and she can barely breathe. To watch her dreams come alive for the whole world to witness everything that she is? It is too much for her to take; but she sees Denali’s dark eyes staring at her, welling with tears, and she remembers to let air back into her lungs.

“Denali!”

She hears her roommate screech in the background as she opens the video on their TV. She hears Phenomenon play from miles away and if she had wings, she is sure she would fly there and fall apart in Denali’s arms.

“Rosé!” She turns to look through the glass doors. Jan is waving a champagne bottle over her head and it takes all her strength to stop herself from sobbing.

“I have to go, there’s champagne calling my name.”

“What happened to not drinking?” Denali teases.

The sight of her smile almost makes her confess a fourth truth, but she stops herself from going too far. Denali had asked her to plant more roses, not to tear them out of the ground and offer them to her.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on sticking to it anyway.”

She hangs up the phone and runs back into the unit, where she watches as Lagoona pops off the cork and busts open a light.

In the midst of counting her three truths, she convinces herself of one lie: She doesn’t want to take that break and fly to Chicago.

* * *

Over the weekend, the video is met with critical acclaim. The critics rave about the song and the production value, and Rosé thinks she might spontaneously combust. Most of all, they praise the choreography. Every time Denali’s name comes up in an article, she takes screenshots to send her, trying to wipe off the proud grin that inevitably graces her lips.

Local celebrities immediately jump at the chance to work with her and when she calls Rosé each time that her email fills up with offers, she slowly feels herself come undone, her lie unravelling to reveal the truth she can’t bring herself to confess yet.

She returns to the studio on Monday morning with the promise of making up for her previous transgression. While the success of Phenomenon had been empowering, it would be a lie to say that she’s excited to return to the studio. The release of the video only served to remind her of how little she’s been resting, sleepless from the pressure of having to do even better.

Tacked onto that is the stress of having to record a song she’d been dreading. When she had first started to record months ago, she tried to start off with the song that had her favorite lyrics. Every single word was beautiful, paint strokes that should be masterfully brushed across a canvas. Yet, they felt so empty. The paint came off dull and lifeless and so below the standard of work she had.

To be fair, they had been written for an ex she had felt far too much for years ago. In hindsight, the only words she should have probably written were, “fuck you for breaking up with me during an anniversary dinner I spent a shit ton of money on.” When she moved with Jan and Lagoona into their unit, she had found a box with a tiny kraft notebook in it. She had opened it, not expecting the treasure trove within, words so raw and soul-baring that doing nothing with them felt criminal.

Over the past few weeks, the microphone in front of her looks more and more daunting. It calls her a fraud for faking feelings, for trying to make something perfect from emotions she doesn’t remember ever feeling.  _ Snap out of it,  _ she thinks,  _ it’s a damn microphone.  _ Each time her eyes come back to focus on it, she feels like the weight of it all may crush her.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Her producer is watching her from the other side of the glass, eyes full of concern. It isn’t her style to be distracted when working, and it only makes her zoning out all the more worrying. She tries her best to smile at him, throwing up a thumbs up for good measure. He nods back at her, semi-satisfied by the response, and presses play.

The light tinkling of piano keys floats into the studio. It is the soft, slow beginning of a dream that she only vaguely remembers. It sounds like lost time, like memories that should matter but don’t anymore.

Then the bass sneaks in, low and strong like realizations in the middle of the night while staring up at peeling ceilings. Like the words jotted on the pages, it reminds her of the pain of confession, asking some higher power why pain and pleasure always mingle.

The feeling of panic starts to rise in her chest, so fast that she can’t register that it’s even there. She is spiraling in thoughts of falsity. How could this song possibly be any good when the meaning of the words is too faded to mean anything?

She wills herself to be calm, to think of moments when it was easy to breathe.

_ When she walks through the streets of New York, the first vestiges of daylight breaking across the sky. _

_ When she listens to the low hum of the radiator in her childhood home. _

_ When she sees sunshine streaming through studio windows, casting shadows on dark wood floors. _

_ When Denali’s laughter would fill the room after she made some stupid witty comment. _

_ When Denali had promised her in the dead of night that it would not be the last time. _

_ When Denali texts her late at night, sending videos of people attempting the choreography to Phenomenon. _

The lyrics begin to flow out of her mouth, but she can barely hear her own voice. The admission is nothing more than a whisper, the most private of confessions that the song means something again. What once felt like a cover is a brand-new song, dedicated to feelings she has yet to name.

It isn’t a love song, not even close. It is just the kiss of scarred skin against petals, wondering if these types of dreams are allowed to grow in her garden.

The song ends steady, but her resolve is shaken. The seed has been planted, the wanting growing with each breath; but there are still thorns that tell her to bear the pain, tell her that there is no room for new flowers to sprout.

She opens her eyes and sees the producer grinning at her. She’s finally done it, achieved the perfection she desperately craved, all so that they might reach the right ears one day.

* * *

She’s perched on the counter, swinging her legs while answering emails, when she hears Jan trying to push open the front door with her shoulder. She is struggling to carry in a filled-up bag, and all she can do is raise her eyebrows when she sets it down beside her.

“Ice cream!” Jan answers her questioning look, like bringing home a dozen pints of ice cream on a Saturday night is normal for them. When she picks out one of the containers to inspect it, she realizes that the flavors are even more unusual.

“Bitch, what is apple pie moonshine ice cream?” She asks as she pops off the lid. Her friend doesn’t say anything, only responding by handing her a spoon. When she cautiously tries it, all she can think about is how it tastes like someone threw a vat of cream and apples into a vat of ethanol. Regardless, she continues to eat it, indulging her admittedly awful eating habits. “Where the hell did you get this?”

Jan shrugs. “There’s this really cute girl on Instagram that opened a creamery.” She takes her own spoon and tries it for herself. The face she pulls makes Rosé question how attractive the girl really is. “Speaking of cute girls, how’s Denali?”

Over the past week, the frequency of her texts with Denali has dwindled. She sends messages here and there, asking how she is, but she tries her best not to let the discussions go any further. She convinces herself that there is too much work to be done, that she doesn’t deserve whatever this is until she gets her work right.

Rosé ignores the question and attempts to return to her emails, only to have her phone snatched from her hands. “Seriously? I have work to do, Jan.”

“After you tell me what’s going on.”

She tugs on the strings of her hoodie nervously, willing to remember the details and texture of her lie. It’s hard to focus on when all she can think about is the truth she hasn’t voiced aloud while sober.

“We’re just talking.”

Jan hums around a spoon of ice cream. “Well, you guys have been ‘just talking’ for a while now.”

“I like talking to her.” She holds out her hand, reaching her limit for things that she’s willing to admit. “Now, can I have my phone back please? I can’t get distracted from my work.”

“Oh, come on!” Jan exclaims so loudly that she almost falls off the counter. “Rosé, you have been calling her almost every night for over a month, you giggle like a teenager when she texts you back, and worst of all, you got drunk and tried to book a flight just to see her. You can’t tell me you’re not already distracted.”

The truth is so glaringly obvious that no one is convinced, not even herself. She’s tried so hard but the moment Jan says the words out loud, she knows that there is no point in trying. She misses Denali and the chance of knowing her, plain and simple.

“All the more reason for me to stop texting her so much.”

“No, don’t be a dummy!” Jan smacks her on the back of the head. “Text her, call her; hell, book a flight to see her!”

“What about the album?”

“Fuck the album!” She doesn’t expect her to say it, especially because she knows that Jan takes her work just as seriously. “Every song you’ve ever written is about your life but if you keep putting it on hold, you’re going to miss it.”

She pretends to gag at the Hallmark movie sounding line, but she knows that she’s right. She remembers the microphone in the studio, judging her for singing about things she no longer understands.

Maybe it’s time to try and learn again.

“Give me my phone.”

Jan looks proud as she dials the number. She is tired of waiting for another chance, sick of tallying down the days until something will finally happen. It’s her time to live again and in the midst of her fear, she can’t help but feel excited.

“Hey Tamisha? About that break…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're going short and sweet today, everyone! rest assured, the next chapter will be lengthier and even more emotional. maybe more heated too (will she try writing smut?? maybe.) honestly, i don't know either guys, i'm my own biggest fan and i'm constantly unsure what i'm going to do next, so i'm just as excited to find out. comments are welcome and ever so loved, so please let me know what you think. see you guys, all the love xx

There is a crowd watching her. Their expressions are mocking and their blank eyes are fixed on her, like characters straight out of a horror movie. She makes one wrong step and their jaws start to move up and down in laughter, like robots with a loose hinge.

She feels her voice leave her, that unmatched vibration ringing through her body like a bell that’s been struck. The words in her mouth feel foreign. She doesn’t know what they are and who wrote them, but she is sure she is singing them. They are drowned out by whispers, little wisps of air floating over her head. She swats them away, but they only grow in number.

“Hello?”

The buzz in the room has grown so loud that even her yelling can’t be heard over it. She covers her ears. She knows that listening to the whispers won’t do her any good, but the wisps crawl through the cracks between her fingers.

_ I heard she didn’t even write the song. _

_ Could her voice be any more emotionless? _

_ How bland. _

_ What a fraud. _

The bitterness of words she doesn’t own taste like poison, and she believes she’s about to die. She doesn’t care about what they say, forever indifferent to what others think of her; but she’s afraid of the fact that there is no clenching in her chest, the presence of emptiness and numbness that makes her feel like she isn’t real.

The wisps join to form a void beneath her feet, making the stage swallow her whole so she’ll never know what it’s like to feel again.

_ Wake up! _

She awakens with a start as the plane lands. There’s a sharp intake of breath that makes it feel like bones might shatter and puncture her lungs, but she’s thankful for the way it reminds her that her body is real. She scratches at her neck, trying to remove the residual fear still trapped under her skin.

As quickly as she can, she joins the shuffle to the exit. The soles of her shoes kiss the airport floor, and she tries to concentrate on the feeling of being alive. Even then, she’s hyperaware of pockets of numbness that have been left behind, little pieces of the void left on her arms and legs.

She looks at her phone and smiles when she sees Denali’s text from before the plane took off. Thinking of pillow soft lips and the fingertips framing her face, the tiniest contact of skin sending sparks through her body. She’s almost found all feeling again.

Almost.

* * *

On the way to the hotel, she thinks that she may never fall asleep again, too haunted by the possibility that she’ll see visions of failure every time she dares to close her eyes; but when she sees the queen-sized bed, nothing else makes sense to her except crashing onto it and drowning in the fresh sheets.

She wakes from a dreamless sleep, grateful for the feeling of being somewhat well-rested. There are still pieces of emptiness that stick to her skin, but she resolves that a quick shower will wash them all away.

When she finishes freshening up, she looks at her phone. To her shock, it’s already 7:30 in the evening, barely half an hour before the time she agreed to meet Denali for dinner. “Shit!” She yells out as she grabs for a denim vest that Lagoona had once lovingly dubbed as, “peak 80s lesbian.” She rushes out of the hotel doors and listens to the  _ click, click, click  _ of her boots tapping impatiently against the pavement as she waits for her Uber.

She’s fully aware that this is not just the concept of being late to something. No, the mounting feeling of anxiety mingling with excitement comes from the thought of seeing Denali’s face again. She wonders if the person she sees in her head could ever match up to the real thing, knowing full well that nothing could compare.

In the Uber, she realizes that she hasn’t taken one look at herself in the mirror. She grabs a compact in her bag and groans at the sight of herself. There’s virtually no makeup on her face, the little mascara and eyeliner that she’d opted to wear on her flight practically non-existent. The lonely pink lipstick that she swipes on in the dim light doesn’t exactly boost her confidence for a sort-of-first date. 

The moment she steps out of the car, she spots Denali sitting right by the window. She’s dressed in a jacket and workout leggings, looking like she’d come straight from the studio but even then, she looks stunningly beautiful. She was absolutely right to think that memories and phone screens would never glow the same way, would never send sparks from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet the way that she does.

She turns her head, seeing pink hair from the corner of her eye, and Rosé thanks God that she gets to see someone smile at her like that. Her eyes are alight with a sort of wonder, and it strikes her that she’s not the only one who’s been looking forward to the feeling of not being alone.

There’s barely one foot in the restaurant when she feels a pair of arms wrap around her neck, holding her so close that she can smell the faded remnants of clementine and lychees sticking to her skin. By pure instinct alone, her arms come around Denali’s waist and she feels more than hears a soft chuckle escape her. The world is made of clear glass windows and overhead lights that tint her flesh orange, but the eyes that can see them do not exist. The little white orbs in people’s heads are their own planets, far away from them.

“Hi.

“Hello.”

When she’s let go of, she tries to ignore the ache that blossoms in her chest, new roses rooting themselves in muscle.

“Okay, I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for us already.” Denali says as she takes her seat.

“No worries, I don’t know anything about Korean food anyway.” She shoots an apologetic look her way. “I’m sorry I’m late, my stupid nap somehow turned into a coma.”

There’s a laugh that makes her insides churn, that makes everything in her field of vision turn into a blur because how could anything else be when she’s right there, smiling so wide that Rosé forgets her own name?

She looks down at the food in front of them and realizes that she hasn’t eaten anything except for a bag of fruit snacks on the plane. “Alright angel, I’m ready to be guided through this experience.” Denali’s cheeks color at hearing the pet name that had previously been reserved for text messages sent from miles away.

“Here, this is  _ tteokboki. _ ” She’s handed a bowl of squishy white rice cakes the shape of tiny pillows covered in a sauce that looks like it may just burn her tongue off. She raises an eyebrow at her and Denali rolls her eyes. “I swear it isn’t as spicy as your white ass thinks it is.”

Rosé scoffs, but tries the food anyway. She finds that she wasn’t talking bullshit when she can bear the spice that dances on her tongue. “Okay, I like this.” She says before taking another bite. “Now tell me, how do you know what all this food is?”

“I did some dance training in Korea for a while.” She replies as she takes her chopsticks and steals some food out of Rosé’s bowl.

“You can’t just say that and not tell me more.” She says and when she laughs again, an almost childish sound, the little butterflies in her stomach flutter.

For the next hour, Denali talks about her time in Korea, and when Rosé is asked about how the album is going, she tries her best to explain. It isn’t that it’s going bad, it’s just that she feels like she’s in a rut. There aren’t really any words to describe it. Stuck doesn’t suffice because the work continues, but progress doesn’t seem to fit either. It’s only right that words won’t do now. Even those she wants to sing are flowers that refuse to bloom.

“Jan and Lagoona thought it was about time for me to get a little break.” She says, picking up a piece of potato coated in syrup.

“Speaking of Lagoona,” Denali begins. “She promised me an explanation about the airplane incident and I still haven’t received it.”

She shrugs. “I would give you an explanation if I remembered anything about that night.”

“Didn’t think you were a lightweight, Rosie.” She teases.

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” A hand flies to her chest in mock insult, making Denali snort in laughter. “I am a strong Scottish lady that can handle her liquor.”

Her mouth hangs open in shock, a playful glimmer dancing in her eyes that lights something up in Rosé. There is the familiar tug of more than just flirtation, of interest that begs to be indulged.

“Please tell me you can do the accent.”

“I can,” she replies as she places her chopsticks down. “But it’s going to cost you some alcohol to get me to speak in my mother tongue.”

“Oh my God, Scottish isn’t a fucking language.” She’s laughing as she buries her head in her hands, and Rosé feels a tug that is more than just flirtation. It is affection, building ever so slowly as she knows more about Denali. “If that’s what it takes, I know just the place.”

* * *

The law of attraction is a funny thing, she thinks. It implies that somewhere out there, there are two people who want to put the whole world between them. There is a pair looking for ways to defy the rules of space and time just to be apart.

She believes that her and Denali are the inverse. They’re sipping on Moscow mules at a bar near Denali’s apartment, laughing loudly at Rosé’s Scottish accent and the stupidest of jokes. Stray touches of fingertips against her arm make her believe that those two people are springing farther apart. She is getting pulled into the field, unseen forces wanting her to draw Denali so close that she forgets what it’s like to be touched by anyone else.

It’s nearing midnight when the place starts to crowd. At first, she doesn’t mind so much that people notice her. It’s not hard to with the signature big pink hair; but then she starts to hear whispers, things she can’t discern. The anxiety takes hold, digging its claws into her chest until she feels that unmistakable sting.

Denali looks at her, really looks at her. She watches those eyes, so easy to read, flit across the room when she hears her name roll straight off someone’s tongue. Without another word, she grabs at her hand and they make their way towards the exit. They’re out the door in an instant, the rush of cold midnight air blowing through the coils of Rosé’s hair.

“Sorry.” Denali apologizes, but she knows there’s nothing to be sorry about. “I forget you’re famous sometimes.”

“More like famous-adjacent but that’s close enough, I guess.”

There are words unspoken on the tip of her tongue. They taste like ‘thank you,’ but she can’t voice them out loud. She knows that they’ll continue to go on, the incident unmentioned, but the thought of being seen by someone enough for them to know that her chest has begun to clench is enough for her to let the taste linger.

“Walk me home?”

“Sure.”

She sings as they walk, letting the melody carry the weight of the load on her shoulders. Denali leans against her as she laughs. Neither of them has had much to drink, but she can’t remember a time in her life when she’d last felt so carefree, despite what just happened.

They stop in front of Denali’s apartment door. She fiddles with her keys, looking away from Rosé. “So, this is me.” She bites her lip. There it is again, those two people on the other side of the world are surely trying to put the whole solar system between them because she’s willing to break the laws of physics to be as close as she needs to be.

“I had a lot of fun tonight, D.”

They both know where this is going. Who will break first? There’s a small smile playing at her mouth that she wants to kiss away, capture teases with her lips and taste the traces of it coating her tongue.

“Me too.”

Denali reaches up and places a featherlight kiss to the side of her mouth. To an outsider, the gesture might seem chaste and gentle; but the way that she’s smirking when she hears the breath catch in Rosé’s throat is anything but. Closer and closer to the line, tips of toes barely an inch away.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and that’s it. She loses the game.

She kisses her, hard and fast like the collision of heavenly bodies. The universe will fall apart, turn into a primordial mess, but she doesn't care. All that she knows is the sigh against her lips, the unsaid breath of ‘finally.’

Denali moans a fucking prayer.  _ Lord, let me know the taste of heaven and everything else will be hell forever.  _ The sound rings in Rosé’s ears like church bells on Sunday morning. She’s never been religious, but she suddenly wants to know what communion is like.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

Church doors swing open and they make their way to the bedroom. Her thoughts fly out of her head, and she doesn’t know where they go. Probably the same place her vest disappears to when it’s pushed off of her shoulders.

Denali lays down on the bed, hair spreading out like a golden halo around her head. She is befitting of the name angel, the very picture of radiance that should be feared. Rosé straddles her, leaning down to kiss her softly when…

Denali’s laughing. She’s fucking laughing. At first, she thinks that she’s just sensitive, but she hears those giggles that can’t be mistaken for anything else. Rosé sits back up and looks down at her. She knows it’s been a hot minute since she’s last had sex with anyone, but she’s sure it isn’t so bad as to warrant laughter.

“I’m so sorry.” She apologizes, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. “I’ve just never hooked up with anyone whose hair bounces like their tits.”

The comment is so unbearably, stupidly Denali that she’s floored. Rosé felt that the sex was about to be looking-God-straight-in-the-eyes good and it’s interrupted because she has  _ bounce? _

Well, she’s nothing if not just as ridiculous. She starts to bob up and down and watches Denali break into an uncontrollable fit of laughter underneath her. She finds herself laughing too, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes at how absurd the whole situation is.

“You’re so stupid.”

“So are you.”

Before she can register it, she’s been flipped onto her back. A knee presses softly into her, making her hiss. She revels at the way her eyes start to light up, the need to feel more growing steadily in both of them. Lips brush against the shell of her ear and she gasps.

“You sure?’

They stop moving for a moment. She listens to them breathe. She thinks that this is what it must be like when people worship. It is all reverence, awe, awareness of the fact that nothing should be this great. The breath stuck in her throat is the final prayer. It is all that it takes for her to see heaven.

“Yes.”

To feel fire in her veins cooled by the kiss of ice against her skin; oh how, blessed is she who thirsts to come undone.

* * *

She rarely remembers her dreams, unless they’re nightmares. When she wakes the next morning, she can’t recall any of them, so she wonders if Denali leaving imprints on her flesh had been nothing more than thoughts of her, slipping into her dreams like a ghost in the night.

One look at the form sleeping beside her and she knows that it can’t be true. She knows that she will never dream of Denali again, not when she’s become acquainted with her touch. Her mind will never be able to conjure up anything as sweet as reality.

“Denali?” She says as she rolls onto her side. There is no stirring, not even a little bit. Rosé pokes her in the side, still unable to prompt even the littlest of responses. She sighs in defeat before getting up to look for her phone.

The numbers on the screen tell her it's a little past 9 in the morning, but her inbox is so flooded that she thinks that they lie. Claws start to bury in her chest, deep into her lungs so that they can pop like balloons. The next five days should belong to her and her alone; then why does she feel like each email she doesn’t reply to is one step away from her world falling apart?

She crouches down beside the edge of the bed. “Hey, Denali?” she says, only to be met with a whine in protest. “Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Mmm,” she grumbles in response. “Second drawer from the top.”

Seeing her laying there, all wrapped up in a blanket, makes a rush of affection run through Rosé. She’s tempted to place a kiss to her hair but she stops herself from opening the can of worms that she knows she isn’t ready for quite yet. “Got it, thanks.”

She reaches into the drawer and grabs a shirt. “I’ll just get some water.” She says after slipping the shirt over her head. There’s another grumble in response that she interprets as a yes.

When she steps out of the door, she’s immediately stopped in her tracks by the sight of Denali’s roommate seated on the couch, a cup of coffee halfway to her lips when she spots Rosé. Her mind goes blank, unsure of what words she should say to someone when she’s in HER apartment, walking around in nothing but a shirt.

“Hi.” The girl says with a wave, breaking the silence. “Sorry, Denali didn’t tell me she was having anyone over.”

“No, I’m sorry.” She bursts out because what else can she say? “I didn’t mean to-- I’m Rose.”

“I’m Kahmora.” Her smile is warm and inviting despite the circumstances. “Please, do whatever you need to do.”

She opens her mouth to thank her when she hears a loud  _ thump  _ come from the room. “Rosie, I forgot!” Denali yells over her shoulder but she sees what’s happening and knows she’s too late. “Shit. Good morning, Kahmora.”

“Morning, Denali.” Kahmora looks amused beyond belief and hides her smile behind the coffee cup.

“Why don’t you go back inside?” Denali suggests to her, not taking her eyes off of Kahmora. “I’ll just bring you some water.”

“Sure thing.”

The door closes behind her but the walls are thin enough for her to hear, “Bitch, you better not leave out a single detail.” She chuckles at the thought of Denali blushing at the comment as she takes a seat on the bed.

Denali creeps back into the room with a glass. She looks at Rosé, exasperation painted across her features as she gives her the water. “I completely forgot that she’s home on Sunday mornings.” She wrings her hands, all tense and apologetic. “I swear that I’ll tell you next time, I just—”

Rosé takes her hand, squeezing and writing letters of comfort on skin with the pad of her thumb. “Don’t worry about it, angel. It’s okay.” Her shoulders finally relax, and she pulls her back onto the bed beside her. “And who said anything about next time?”

Denali raises her eyebrows and grabs the glass of water to set it aside. “After last night, I refuse to let you leave Chicago without an encore.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two apologies and one thingy:  
> 1\. i am very sorry about any errors in this one. it's been a busy week and i literally just finished reading through this. i'm too excited and sorry about not having someone beta this (oopsies)  
> 2\. i am sorry for any pain i am about to cause (i'm not really sorry, it was so fun to write this, you have no clue)  
> 3\. if anyone is asking "i wonder what lexi/ary listened to when she wrote this because it sounds like someone hurt her," look no further! here's a link to the spotify playlist (yes, i did listen to soft spot by claud and so hot you're hurting my feelings by caroline polachek many times for this) https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3DFwkXGTFt5KaLlaMq6Pu6?si=mk26idm_QFyCsU9lLBrHBA  
> much love xx

For the first three days, she wills herself to memorize the taste of peace. She lets it wash over her tongue and erase the aftertaste of her addiction. Now, all she tastes is peppermint lip balm that transfers onto her lips in between kisses. She tastes morning coffee, no cream and two sugars, brought to her in a bed that feels okay for one that’s not her own. She tastes salt on skin after being well-fucked.

On the evening of the third day, the withdrawal takes hold and she can’t stop herself from shaking as she stands outside the apartment door. She bites her lip, chews on the flesh until she draws blood. Will Denali taste it when she kisses her, recognizing that unmistakable taste of iron and anxiety melting together as they coat her tastebuds?

“Tamisha, how are the plans for the photoshoot next week?”

Will Denali know that she’s a fraud? Will she know that when she’s lying beside her in bed, her head is finally clear? Will she know that she sobers with each kiss only to come crawling back to her work, drinking it in until she forgets how to feel again?

“Rosé, what the hell did I say about calling unless it’s an emergency?”

She’s right. She almost always is. It’s why she trusts her judgement so much, that motherly instinct the only thing keeping her afloat on most days.

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“Is everything okay? If something’s weighing on you—”

“I’m fine.”

 _Ah yes,_ that word is so familiar. It has an overwhelming note of denial and the slightest hint of bitterness, much like coffee the consistency of tar. Of course, she knows fine isn’t a real word. It conveys so little meaning, a term used to describe the feeling of no feeling.

“Alright then.” The lie isn’t at all convincing and she’s aware of it, but Tamisha doesn’t push it any further. She’s grateful to have someone see straight through her like that. At least that’s one less person in the crowd to fool. “No more calling unless it’s an emergency, okay?”

It isn’t a question. She demands it of her, like a queen who would have her head sent to New York on a platter if she so much as thinks about dialing her number. She doesn’t wait for Rosé to reply, hanging up before she can bring herself to complain.

The apartment door clicks open as she tucks her phone away. Denali is standing there in a skin tight purple dress that makes her mouth go dry. She’s wearing the prettiest little smirk; more beautiful than any diamond necklace or designer handbag she’s ever seen.

“It’s not nice to tease, you know.”

Denali comes up to kiss her, slow and languid. It reminds her of waking up, that brief moment before shapes turn distinct and everything in the world is just fluid.

“Let’s go?” She whispers against her lips. There’s no comment about the taste of blood, no mention about the way it worries her. Rosé kisses her again for good measure, if only to feel her heart race in her chest.

“Okay.”

* * *

Everything about the evening is lovely. Denali’s friends welcome her with open arms and she finds herself lean into the loud, crude jokes that send the whole group into hysterics. It doesn’t take much for her to start butting in with her own clever quips, making them clutch at their stomachs in laughter. They make little mention about if she’s releasing new music soon and she wonders if Denali had said something beforehand. Either way, she’s thankful for it.

Under flashing blue lights, Denali’s eyes look darker than ever. She’s staring straight at Rosé when Kahmora leans over to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it is, it causes blood to shoot up to her cheeks, turning them into two red roses glowing brighter than anything in the room. Before Rosé figures out what’s happening, she’s being led by the wrist onto the dance floor.

She settles her hands on Denali’s hips and they move along to the music. It doesn’t take long for her to feel like it’s not enough. It can’t be when she’s leaning so close that even thin purple fabric feels like too much space apart.

“Are you trying to seduce me, D?”

“Only if it’s working.”

She isn’t sure about much, but she’s sure that Denali was born to do this. She was born to dance anywhere and everywhere, from studios to ice rinks to flush against her body. Every motion flows from her body to Rosé’s, dangerous waves crashing together in an ocean of people.

“I’m not seducible.”

She throws her head back, hair falling over Rosé’s shoulder as she laughs. “One, if you’re going to quote A Walk to Remember, at least do it right.” She says as she leans farther in. “Two, that’s definitely not the impression I got from this morning. And last night. And the night before.”

Even the very mention of things they’ve done makes any thoughts of pulling her to the dirty restroom because she can’t keep her hands to herself look chaste in comparison. Her memories betray her, making her flustered by the way they look burned onto the back of her eyelids.

“Is this your attempt at asking me for a repeat performance, then?”

“Attempt?” Her voice is thick with lust and mock incredulity. “We both know where we’re going to end up tonight, Rosie. I’m just speeding up the process.”

She spins her around and thanks God for once that her eyes are so easy to read. Everything she wants to say but can’t bring herself to sing or speak is right there. Denali’s right, there’s only one way that the night is going to end and how she feels against her is another reminder of it.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They give their hasty farewells to Denali’s friends who only shoot them knowing looks. None of them say anything until they’ve started to walk away and she hears someone yell, “Keep it low tonight you two! Kahmora needs her beauty sleep.” The girl in question squeals as they exit through the club doors.

Out of respect for the comment, they book an Uber to her hotel instead. She tries her best to keep her cool but the hand that reaches out for her knee, slowly sliding up until the air in her lungs turns into honey that sticks to the muscle of her lungs. The sweetness she breathes out almost makes her forget there’s someone else in the car.

Phenomenon starts to play on the radio, but she can barely focus on anything except the seemingly innocent tapping on her thigh. “Sir,” Denali says to the driver. “Could you turn it up? I love this song.”

Rosé chuckles as the music gets louder. The man is humming along to the music, fully unaware that the singer is in the backseat of his car, directing all of her energy into anything that isn’t the images she sees when she blinks.

“It’s a phenomenon…” Denali is bobbing her head as she sings softly. She’s beautifully nonchalant, acting like the words she’s writing on her bare flesh aren’t a script of all the things she’s ready to do once she lays down on the mattress.

The car stops in front of the hotel and Rosé springs out of the car, practically running to the elevator doors with Denali in tow. They slide open and she’s pushed in, the skin of her back cooling when it hits the metal wall.

She’s kissed so hard that it takes her breath away, leaving her in the form of something between a moan and a sigh. Short nails graze her back and she short-circuits, not even stopping to consider the possibility that the doors could open at any moment.

Suddenly, the elevator halts. The lights flicker before going out completely. Denali pauses from peppering kisses onto her jawline before going completely still.

“What the hell?” Rosé whispers to the dark, unable to place where her own voice is.

She’s sure it hasn’t been any longer than two minutes but the sound of Denali struggling to breathe in front of her makes it feel like an eternity. “It’s okay,” she shushes her, sounding calm despite the own panic that’s starting to rise up in her. “We’re okay.”

“Sorry, not a huge fan of confined spaces.”

If she could, she’d do anything to draw the fear right out of her. By sheer will, she’d make the world stop turning if only to make her feel safe again. Denali’s forehead presses into her shoulder and she settles for being an anchor, the one real thing she can reach for in the dark.

“Don’t be sorry, angel.” She lets her fingertips trail along her sides, a gentle reminder that she’s alive even if she can’t feel it. “We’re all scared of something.”

When it becomes clear that the elevator won’t move any time soon, she leads her to sit on the floor. There’s a shaky sigh but she doesn’t know from whose mouth it leaves. In the dark little space, she sees what’s needed of her.

“Put your head on my shoulder,” she sings softly, hearing her voice drift farther and farther away into the emptiness. “Hold me in your arms, baby.”

“Mmm,” Denali obliges, and she feels her settle into the crook of her neck. “Squeeze me oh so tight.”

“Show me that you love me too.”

She doesn’t know it yet, isn’t quite sure of it yet, but she feels it in the same place her voice escapes. The words already belong to her.

The lights come back on so fast that her eyes have difficulty adjusting. She looks at Denali beside her and embraces the pain that blossoms in her chest. How could she return to New York in two days and not feel the way she does now?

They stand up as the elevator starts to move again. Before the doors can even fully open, they already hear the hotel manager on the other side, apologizing profusely. She can feel more than see how tired Denali is, so she brushes it all off and accepts the offer of complimentary drinks to make up for the inconvenience.

By the time they get to her room, all thoughts of sex have disappeared from both of their heads. She offers Denali a shirt that she gratefully slips into and they crawl under the covers. Rosé drapes an arm over her body, keeping her in the space that fear cannot occupy.

“Goodnight, angel.”

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

She presses her lips into her shoulder before letting her eyes shut. The dark doesn’t look empty anymore. It’s too full of images of her.

* * *

“Denali!”

She memorizes the way her mouth moves, the different tones giving it a new configuration every time. Each letter has a shape to be learned and explored with her tongue, much in the same way that Denali chooses to explore her.

“Denali!” Same situation, another way to say her name. It’s a gasp this time, one that comes out as her hand flies to blonde hair. She’s hitting the right spot now, the one that makes her claw at the sheets while heat pools up in the pit of her stomach.

“Mmm,” There’s a hum from below as she feels a kiss pressed to the inside of her thigh. “Are you asking me to stop, Rosie?”

“Don’t even think about it.” She lifts herself up on her elbows to glare at her. Her gaze softens immediately when she sees Denali’s face, nothing short of gorgeous with the teasing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Without warning, she feels her tongue press back into her. She sighs, head falling back onto the pillow. It takes a moment but the ministrations cause her to start writhing again. Just as her breaths start to grow more and more labored, she feels fingers enter her.

“Fuck.” She’s panting when she feels a palm press flat onto her stomach. She can’t see where its sister is, but she can sure feel it. “One more.”

Denali obeys, slipping another finger in. Rosé’s hand starts to tug lightly on her hair as the shadows on the ceiling start to meld together. The movements speed up and she turns into a puddle on the bed, melting away like ice.

Her fingers curl and she almost screams. She’s pretty sure that the ungodly noises she hears are coming from her own mouth, but she can’t bring herself to quiet down. All she cares about is how close she is to coming apart, fingers pulling at the thread that holds her together.

When does she cross the line of too much? It’s too instantaneous for her to give a time. She just knows that one moment, she’s biting her lip and the next, she’s moaning Denali’s name as she feels her lap at her with her tongue.

“Come here.”

She gets up from her position at the end of the bed and cleans her hands before crawling over Rosé. There’s bound to be a bruise on her hip for her to take home to New York tomorrow, but when Denali places a kiss over the spot, she has to close her eyes to savor the way it feels.

When she opens them, she’s already lying down beside her, wearing nothing but a lazy smile as she twirls a lock of pink hair around her finger.

“Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“As much as I love the idea of spending your last night in Chicago at an all you can eat Rosie buffet,” She laughs, throwing an arm around her because that sense of humor isn’t the same from hundreds of miles away. “I made plans for us tonight.”

Her brows furrow. “It’s getting kind of late, D.” She says, stroking her arm. “Don’t you want to get some rest?

“No!” Denali sits up so fast that she almost misses the motion. “I made up plans for us tonight, we have to go.” She juts out her lip in a pout, something that shouldn’t make Rosé’s heart hurt so much when she remembers she has to leave tomorrow.

“Please, Rosie?”

“If it isn’t as good as what you just did to me, I’m suing.”

Denali beams and she’s a deer caught in the headlights. There’s a quick kiss to her cheek and she has to swallow the pain that keeps threatening to snap her in half just so she can stay with her in Chicago.

* * *

“We’re here!”

At first, she’d joked that the blindfold was because she was getting dragged to a kinky sex club. If she’s honest, she’s not entirely opposed to the whips and chains thing, but the idea of not being able to sit on the plane tomorrow because of a sore ass did give her some pause.

When it comes off, she finds herself pleasantly surprised at how wrong she was.

The disco ball hanging from the ceiling reflects shades of pink across the ice. It looks like it had once been a sea where hundreds of roses the shade of her hair had once drowned before making itself freeze over to protect them.

She turns to Denali who is looking immensely proud of herself for such a thoughtful goodbye present. She’s not sure how many goodbyes they’re going to have but the way everything looks makes her feel like the bar will be raised each time.

Rosé places her hands on her cheeks, hoping that her lips can communicate words even when she can’t find it in her to say or sing them.

There’s a pair of skates waiting for her at the gate and she slips them on. Denali goes ahead, gliding effortlessly across the ice. _Click_. Another mental picture for her to take home. Another memory that’ll glow inside her head when she’s alone in the dark.

“Come on,” While she’s skated before, she can’t help but feel like a baby deer learning to walk in comparison to someone whose been skating her entire life. “We can go slow. We’ve got all night.”

The concept of a never-ending evening, of not having to think about a Denali-shaped hole in her life in New York sounds infinitely better than the inevitable.

Music is playing over the speakers but she can’t figure out the title of the song, not when she’s trying to put all her energy into not slipping. A pair of hands stay to steady her, so solidly real and unlike any memory or dream that she’ll return home to.

Denali does her signature backflip and Rosé imitates a crowd of cheering fans. “She’s, he’s and them’s, the amazing and beautiful Denali Foxx!” She announces to the empty seats. It makes her wonder how she could sell out shows when she’s mere feet away from her, flying over frozen water.

“Shut up,” she skates over to Rosé as the unnamed song comes to a close. “But thank you for calling me beautiful.”

How could she say that? How could she ever thank her when just looking at her, radiant under flashes of pink, makes every part of Rosé forget why she’s meant to leave? How could she talk so lightly when Rosé knows that every song that she’ll write in the foreseeable future will be an ode to her?

Kiss Me begins to blare over the speakers and Denali pulls her in. It’s magnetic and terrifying and oh so _wonderful_ to be looked at the way she is.

Arms embrace her and they let themselves grow static. She wonders if there are people who want to feel like this. Are there people out there who want to know how bittersweet it is to want nights to never turn into mornings? Are there people out there who want to feel what it’s like to know that their bed will be empty tomorrow?

Are there people out there who want to know what it’s like to have that first taste of love brush against lips, only to turn into the ghost of a memory when they return home?

“I like you.”

That’s close enough, she thinks. The song ends and she kisses her. Memories will have to do.

* * *

Rosé wakes up in her own bed, but she doesn’t remember how she got there.

The last thing she can recall is Denali dropping her off at the airport and her own promise to text once she returned home. It only serves her right, she thinks, that she is the last thing she remembers and the first thing on her mind when she wakes.

“Psst,” The door to her room creaks open. Lagoona creeps in and makes herself at home on the bed without waiting for Rosé to say anything. “How was Chicago?”

“It was great.” She stretches her arms over her head with a yawn. She doesn’t say much more, knowing full well that the question really translates to, “How was Denali and what’s that big purple mark below your jaw?”

It’s both a blessing and a curse to be able to conjure up the image of her in her mind so clearly. It looks the same, makes her feel the same, but it cannot taste or touch the same.

Her phone vibrates on the bedside table and Lagoona hands it to her. At first, she expects it to be a text from Denali, but one look at the phone makes her wish she’d never laid eyes on the screen. Hundreds of notifications about work have poured in since she landed, drowning out the only one she wants to see.

_This is it._

She wishes that the goodbye had been bigger. She wishes that she’d said something, anything before she left. If only she knew that everything that’s happened wouldn’t have an effect on the final destination, maybe she would have let herself relish the kiss like it’s their last.

_It was the last._

“You okay, lovely?”

Memories turn into the promise of sometimes she cannot keep. She tucks them away, wonders to herself when she won’t feel guilty about looking at them again. They’ll be there later when she returns, but she doubts that Denali will be.

“I don’t know.” She settles into Lagoona’s side, tears stuck in her eyes because there’s no use in watering roses that will never bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi dw the pain will be over soon xx


End file.
